• 


I 


SJSPi 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Mary  Randall 


IT'LL  DO  YOU  GOOD  AFTER  YOUR  START. 


THE  OTHER  GIRLS. 


BY 


MBS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY, 

AUTHOR  OF   "FAITH    GARTXKY'S   GIRLHOOD,"    "THE   GAYVVORTHYS, 
"HITHERTO,"    "LESLIE    GOLDTHWAITE,"    "  WE   GIRLS," 
"  REAL 


WITH  ILL 


-    5  i 

1873 

DT-.-rri'TrTE. 
ClSTRATlONS, 


BY 

J.  J.  HAKLEY. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 

(LATE  TICKXOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD  &  Co.) 

1873. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


GIF! 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE  t 

STEBEOTYPED    AND    PRINTED    BY 

H.  0.  HOCGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


Wen 

PEEFAOE. 


"  WAIT  until  you  are  helped,  my  dear !  Don't  touch 
the  pie  until  it  is  cut !  " 

The  old  Mother,  Life,  keeps  saying  tliat  to  us  all. 

As  individuals,  it  is  well  for  us  to  remember  it ;  that 
we  may  not  have  things  until  we  are  helped ;  at  any 
rate,  until  the  full  and  proper  time  comes,  for  courage 
ously  and  with  right  assurance  helping  ourselves. 

Yet  it  is  good  for  people,  as  people,  to  get  a  morsel  — 
a  flavor  —  in  advance.  It  is  well  that  they  should  be  im 
patient  for  the  King's  supper,  to  which  we  shall  all  sit 
down,  if  we  will,  one  day. 

So  I  have  not  waited  for  everything  to  happen  and 
become  a  usage,  that  I  have  told  you  of  in  this  little  story. 
I  confess  that  there  are  good  things  in  it  which  have  not 
yet,  literally,  come  to  pass.  I  have  picked  something  out 
of  the  pie  beforehand. 

I  meant,  therefore,  to  have  laid  all  dates  aside ;  espe 
cially  as  I  found  myself  a  little  cramped  by  them,  in  re- 
introducing  among  these  "  Other  Girls  "  the  girls  whom 
we  have  before,  and  rather  lately,  known.  Lest,  possi 
bly,  in  anything  which  they  have  here  grown  to,  or  expe 
rienced,  or  accomplished,  the  sharply  exact  reader  should 
seem  to  detect  the  requirement  of  a  longer  interval  than 

M35H51 


IV  PREFACE. 

the  almanacs  could  actually  give,  I  meant  to  have  asked 
that  it  should  be  remembered,  that  we  story-tellers  write 
chiefly  in  the  Potential  Mood,  and  that  tenses  do  not 
very  essentially  signify.  It  will  all  have  had  opportunity 
to  be  true  in  eighteen- seventy-five,  if  it  have  not  had  in 
eighteen-seventy-three.  Well  enough,  indeed,  if  the 
prophecies  be  justified  as  speedily  as  the  prochronisms 
will. 

The  Great  Fire,  you  see,  came  in  and  dated  it.  I  could 
not  help  that ;  neither  could  I  leave  the  great  fact  out. 

Not  any  more  could  I  possibly  tell  what  sort  of  April 
days  we  should  have,  when  I  found  myself  fixed  to  the 
very  coming  April  and  Easter,  for  the  closing  chapters  of 
my  tale.  If  persistent  snow-storms  fling  a  falsehood  in 
my  face,  it  will  be  what  I  have  not  heretofore  believed 
possible,  —  a  white  one ;  and  we  can  all  think  of  balmy 
Aprils  that  have  been,  and  that  are  yet  to  be. 

With  these  appeals  for  trifling  allowance,  —  leaving 
the  larger  need  to  the  obvious  accounting  for  in  a  large 
ness  of  subject  which  no  slight  fiction  can  adequately 
handle,  —  I  give  you  leave  to  turn  the  page. 

A.  D.  T.  W. 

BOSTON,  March,  1873. 


OONTEIsTS 


CHAPTER 

I.  SPILLED  OUT        .....        ... 

9 

II.  UP-STAIRS       . 

18 
III.  Two  TRIPS  IN  THE  TRAIN         ..... 

42 
IV    HiHETY-iraflB  FAHRENHEIT    . 

.      60 
V.   SPILLED  OUT  AGAIN    . 

VI.  A  LONG  CHAPTER  OF  A  WHOLE  YEAR        . 

.    110 
VII.   BEL  AND  BARTHOLOMEW  . 

129 
VIII.  To  HELP:   SOMEWHERE  ..... 

,     139 
IX.   INHERITANCE       .  •        •        •  ^ 

X.    FlLLMER  AND   BYLLES      ...... 

XI.   CHRISTOFERO       ........ 

XII.  LETTERS  AND  LINKS        ........ 

ISO 

XIII.  KACHEL  FROKE'S  TROUBLE         .... 

XIV.  MAVIS  PLACE  CHAPEL   ........ 

103 
XV.  BONNY  BOWLS      ......... 


XVI.   RECOMPENSE    .        ..       . 

°22 
XVII.   ERRANDS  OF  HOPE      .        .        . 

f)og 

XVIII.  BRICKFIELD  FARMS         ...... 

259 
XIX.   BLOSSOMING  FERNS      ...... 


XX.     "WANTED"      ........ 

XXI.   VOICES  AND  VISIONS  ......... 

f)QJ| 

XXII.  Box  FIFTY-TWO       ...... 

^CXIII.  EVENING  AND  MORNING:   THE  SECOND  DAY   .        .        •        -311 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 

XXIV.   TEMPTATION 319 

XXV.  BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:   THE  PREACHING  .        .        .        .  329 

XXVI.   TROUBLE  AT  THE  SCHERMANS'        ......  340 

XXVII.   BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:   THE  TAKING  OF  JERUSALEM      .  349 

XXVIII.    "LIVING  IN" •      F  302 

XXIX.     WlNTERGREEN 376 

XXX.   NEIGHBOR  STREET  AND  GRAVES  ALLEY        .        .        .        .387 

XXXI.   CHOSEN:  AND  CALLED 398 

XXXII.   EASTER  LILIES  ..........  413 

XXXIII.  KITCHEN  CRAMBO        ....'....  421 

XXXIV.  WHAT  NOBODY  COULD  HELP  .......  440 

XXXV.   HILL-HOPE   .        .  455 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 


«  IT'LL  DO  YOU  GOOD  AFTER  TOUR  START 

72 
IN  THE  BAY  WINDOW 

"  WHO   MOVED   THIS   MACHINE  1  "      . 

"  CHRISTIE  WILL  KNOW  IT  " 

212 
THE  RUSTLE  OF  ELEGANCE   .         .    .    • 

"DO    YOU   THINK    HE   REMEMDERS    NOW  ?  " 

t  OO 

"  IT  CAME  —  IN  EARNEST  !  " 

«  I  THINK   WE'VE   GOT   THE  REFUSAL   OF  EACH   OTHER  "     .  .  455 


.— — .. 
^MECHANIC 

1SANTFRA 

~W~~~ 
THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SPILLED   OUT. 

SYLVIE  ARGENTER  was  driving  about  in  her 
mother's  little  basket-phaeton. 

There  was  a  story  about  this  little  basket-phaston  ,  a 
story,  and  a  bit  of  domestic  diplomacy. 

The  story  would  branch  away,  back  and  forward ; 
which  I  cannot,  right  here  in  this  first  page,  let  it  do.  It 
would  tell  —  taking  the  little  carriage  for  a  text  and  key 
—  ever  so  much  about  aims  and  ways  and  principles, 
and  the  drift  of  a  household  life,  which  was  one  of  the 
busy  little  currents  in  the  world  that  help  to  make  up  its 
'  great  universal  character  and  atmosphere,  at  this  present 
age  of  things,  as  the  drifts  and  sweeps  of  ocean  make  up 
the  climates  and  atmospheres  that  wrap  and  influence 
the  planet. 

But  the  diplomacy  had  been  this  :  — 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Argie,  I  should  really  like  Sylvie 
to  have.  It  is  getting  to  be  almost  a  necessity,  living 
out  of  town  as  we  do." 

Mr.  Argent er's  other  names  were  "  Increase  Much- 
more  ;  "  but  his  wife  passed  over  all  that,  and  called  him 
in  the  grace  of  conjugal  intimacy,  "Argie." 

Increase  Muchmore  Argenter. 


35  .  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

A  curious  combination ;  but  you  need  not  say  it  could 
not  have  happened.  I  have  read  half  a  dozen  as  funny 
combinations  in  a  single  advertising  page  of  a  newspaper, 
or  in  a  single  transit  of  the  city  in  a  horse-car. 

It  did  not  happen  altogether  without  a  purpose,  either. 
Mr.  Argeriter's  father  had  been  fond  of  money ;  had 
made  and  saved  a  considerable  sum  himself ;  and  always 
meant  that  his  son  should  make  and  save  a  good  deal 
more.  So  he  Dignified  this  in  his  cradle  and  gave  him 
what  he  called  a  lucky  name,  to  begin  with.  The  wife 
of  the  elder  Mr.  Argenter  had  been  a  Muchmore ;  her 
only  brother  had  been  named  Increase,  either  out  of  odd 
ity,  such  as  influenced  a  certain  Mr.  Crabtree  whom  I 
have  heard  of,  to  call  his  son  Agreen,  or  because  the  old 
Puritan  name  had  been  in  the  family,  or  with  a  like 
original  inspiration  of  luck  and  thrift  to  that  which  in 
fluenced  the  later  christening,  if  you  can  call  it  such  ;  and 
now,  therefore,  resulted  Increase  Muchmore  Argenter. 
The  father  hung,  as  it  were,  a  charm  around  his  son's 
neck,  as  Catholics  do,  giving  saints'  names  to  their  chil 
dren.  But  young  Increase  found  it,  in  his  earlier  years, 
rather  of  the  nature  of  a  millstone.  It  was  a  good  while, 
for  instance,  before  Miss  Maria  Thorndike  could  make  up 
her  mind  to  take  upon  herself  such  a  title.  She  did  not 
much  mind  it  now.  "  I.  M.  Argenter  "  was  such  a  good 
signature  at  the  bottom  of  a  check ;  and  the  surname  was 
quite  musical  and  elegant.  "  Mrs.  Argenter"  was  all  she 
had  put  upon  her  cards.  There  was  no  other  Mrs.  Ar 
genter  to  be  confounded  with.  The  name  stood  by  itself 
in  the  Directory.  All  the  rest  of  the  Argenters  were 
away  down  in  Maine  in  Poggowantimoc. 

"  Living  out  of  town  as  we  do."  Mrs.  Argenter  always 
put  that  in.  It  was  the  nut  that  fastened  all  her  screws 
of  argument. 


SPILLED   OUT.  o 

"  Away  out  here  as  we  are,  we  must  keep  an  expert 
cook,  you  know  ;  we  Jan' t  send  out  for  bread  and  cake, 
and  salads  and  soups,  on  an  emergency,  as  we  did  in 
town."  "  We  must  have  a  seamstress  in  the  house  the 
year  round ;  it  is  such  a  bother  driving  about  a  ten-mile 
circuit  after  one  in  a  hurry ;  "  and  now,  —  "  Sylvie  ought 
to  have  a  little  vehicle  of  her  own,  she  is  so  far  away 
from  all  her  friends  ;  no  running  in  and  out  and  making 
little  daily  plans,  as  girls  do  in  a  neighborhood.  All  the 
girls  of  her  class  have  their  own  pony- chaises  now ;  it  is 
a  part  of  the  plan  of  living." 

"  It  isn't  any  part  of  my  plan,"  said  Mr.  Argenter, 
who  had  his  little  spasms  of  returning  to  old-fashioned 
ideas  he  was  brought  up  in,  but  had  long  ago  practically 
deserted  ;  and  these  spasms  mostly  took  him,  it  must  be 
said,  in  response  to  new  propositions  of  Mrs.  Argenter's. 
His  own  plans  evolved  gradually  ;  he  came  to  them  by 
imperceptible  steps  of  mental  process,  or  outward  con 
straint  ;  Mrs.  Argenter's  "  jumped  "  at  him,  took  him  at 
unawares,  and  by  sudden  impinging  upon  solid  shield  of 
permanent  judgment  struck  out  sparks  of  opposition. 
She  could  not  very  well  help  that.  He  never  had  time 
to  share  her  little  experiences,  and  interests,  and  perplex 
ities,  and  so  sympathize  with  her  as  she  went  along,  and 
up  to  the  agreeing  and  consenting  point. 

"  I  won't  set  her  up  with  any  such  absurdities,"  said 
Mr.  Argenter.  "It's  confounded  ruinous  shoddy  non 
sense.  Makes  little  fools  of  them  all.  Sylvie 's  got  airs 
enough  now.  It  won't  do  for  her  to  think  she  can  have 
everything  the  Highfords  do." 

"  It  isn't  that, "  said  Mrs.  Argenter,  sweetly.  Her  po 
sition,  and  the  soft  "  g  "  in  her  name,  giving  her  a  sense 
of  something  elegant  and  gentle-bred  to  be  always  sus- 


4  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

tained  and  acted  up  to,  had  really  helped  and  strength 
ened  Mrs.  Argenter  in  very  m^^.-iof  her  established 
amiability.  We  don't  know,  always,  where  our  ties  and 
braces  really  are.  We  are  ^graciously  allowed  many  a 
little  temporary  stay  whose  hold  cannot  be  quite  directly 
traced  to  the  everlasting  foundations. 

"  It  isn't  that ;  I  don't  care  for  the  Highfords,  particu 
larly.  Though  I  do  like  to  have  Sylvie  enjoy  things  as 
she  sees  them  enjoyed  all  around  her,  in  her  own  circle. 
But  it's  the  convenience ;  and  then,  it's  a  real  means  of 
showing  kindness.  She  can  so  often  ask  other  girls,  you 
know,  to  drive  with  her  ;  girls  who  haven't  pony-chaises." 

"  Showing  kindness,  yes  ;  you've  just  hit  it  there.  But 
it  isn't  always  fun  to  the  frogs,  Mrs.  A.  !  " 

Now  if  Mrs.  Argenter  disliked  one  thing  more  than 
another,  that  her  husband  ever  did,  it  was  his  calling  her 
tk  Mrs.  A.  ; "  and  I  am  very  much  afraid,  I  was  going  to 
say,  that  he  knew  it ;  but  of  course  he  did  when  she  had 
mildly  told  him  so,  over  and  over,  —  I  am  afraid  he  recol 
lected  it,  at  this  very  moment,  and  others  similar. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Argenter,"  she 
said,  with  some  quiet  coldness. 

"  I  mean,  I  know  how  she  takes  other  girls  to  ride ;  she 
sets  them  down  at  the  small  gray  house,  —  the  house  with 
out  any  piazza  or  bay  window,  Michael  !  "  and  Mr.  Argen 
ter  laughed.  That  was  the  order  he  had  heard  Sylvie  give 
one  day  when  he  had  come  up  with  his  own  carriage  at 
the  post-office  in  the  village,  whither  he  had  walked  over 
for  exercise  and  the  evening  papers.  Sylvie  had  Aggie 
Townsend  with  her,  and  she  put  her  head  out  at  the 
window  on  one  side  just  as  her  father  passed  on  the 
other,  and  directed  Michael,  with  a  very  elegant  noncha 
lance,  to  "  set  this  little  girl  down"  as  aforesaid.  Mr. 


SPILLED  OUT.  5 

Argenter  had  been  half  amused  and  half  angry.     The 
anger  passed  off,  but  he  had  kept  up  the  joke. 

"  O,  do  let  that  old  t  story  alone,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ar 
genter.  "  Sylvie  will  soon  outgrow  all  that.  If  you  want 
to  make  her  a  real  lady,  there  is  nothing  like  letting  her 
get  thoroughly  used  to  having  things." 

"  I  don't  intend  her  to  get  used  to  having  a  pony- 
chaise,"  Mr.  Argenter  said  very  quietly  and  shortly.  "  If 
she  wants  to  '  show  a  kindness,'  and  take  '  other  '  girls  to 
ride,  there's  the  slide-top  buggy  and  old  Scrub.  She  may 
have  that  as  often  as  she  pleases." 

And  Mrs.  Argenter  knew  that  this  ended  —  or  had 
better  end  —  the  conversation. 

For  that  time.  Sylvie  Argenter  did  get  used  to  hav 
ing  a  pony-chaise,  after  all.  Her  mother  waited  six 
months,  until  the  pleasant  summer  weather,  when  her 
friends  began  to  come  out  from  the  city  to  spend  days 
with  her,  or  to  take  early  teas,  and  Michael  had  to  be 
sent  continually  to  meet  and  leave  them  at  the  trains. 
Then  she  began  again,  and  asked  for  a  pony-chaise  for 
herself.  To  "  save  the  cost  of  it  in  Michael's  time,  and 
the  wear  and  tear  of  the  heavy  carriages.  Those  little 
sunset  drives  would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  her,  just  when 
Michael  had  to  be  milking  and  putting  up  for  the  night. v 
Mr.  Argenter  had  forgotten  all  about  the  other  talk, 
Sylvie's  name  now  being  not  once  mentioned ;  and  the 
end  of  it  was  that  a  pretty  little  low  photon  was  added 
to  the  Argenter  equipages,  and  that  Sylvie's  mother  was 
always  lending  it  to  her. 

So  Sylvie  was  driving  about  in  it  this  afternoon.  She 
had  been  over  to  West  Dorbury  to  see  the  Highfords,  and 
was  coming  round  by  Ingraham's  Corner,  to  stop  there 
and  buy  one  of  his  fresh  big  loaves  of  real  brown  bread 


6  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

for  her  father's  tea.  It  was  a  little  unspoken,  politic  un 
derstanding  between  Sylvie  and  her  mother,  that  some 
small,  acceptable  errand  like  this  w?s  to  be  accomplished 
whenever  the  former  had  the  basket-phseton  of  an  after 
noon.  By  quiet,  unspoken  demonstration,  Mr.  Argenter 
was  made  to  feel  in  his  own  little  comforts  what  a  handy 
thing  it  was  to  have  a  daughter  flitting  about  so  easily 
with  a  pony-carriage. 

But  there  was  something  else  to  be  accomplished  this 
time  that  Sylvie  had  not  thought  of,  and  that  when  it 
happened,  she  felt  with  some  dismay  might  not  be  quite 
offset  and  compensated  for  by  the  Ingraham  brown  bread. 

Rod  Sherrett  was  out  too,  from  Roxeter,  Young- Amer- 
icafying  with  his  tandem ;  trying,  to-day,  one  of  his 
father's  horses  with  his  own  Red  Squirrel,  to  make  out 
the  team  ;  for  which,  if  he  should  come  to  any  grief, 
Rodgers,  the  coachman,  would  have  to  bear  responsibility 
for  being  persuaded  to  let  Duke  out  in  such  manner. 

Just  as  Sylvie  Argenter  drew  up  her  pony  at  the  baker's 
door,  Rod  Sherrett  came  spinning  round  the  corner  in 
grand  style.  But  Duke  was  not  used  to  tandem  harness, 
and  Red  Squirrel,  put  ahead,  took  flying  side-leaps  now 
and  then  on  his  own  account ;  and  Duke,  between  his 
comrade's  escapades  and  his  driver's  checks  and  admoni 
tions,  was  to  that  degree  perplexed  in  his  mind  and  ex 
cited  off  his  well-bred  balance,  that  he  was  by  this  time 
becoming  scarcely  more  reliable  in  the  shafts.  Rod  found 
he  had  his  hands  full.  He  found  this  out,  however,  only 
just  in  time  to  realize  it,  as  they  were  suddenly  relieved 
and  emptied  of  their  charge  ;  for,  before  his  call  aiid  the 
touch  of  his  long  whip  could  bring  back  Red  Squirrel  into 
line  at  this  turn,  he  had  sprung  so  far  to  the  left  as  to 
bring  Duke  and  the  "  trap  "  down  upon  the  little  phaeton. 


SPILLED   OUT. 


There  was  a  lock  and  a  crash ;  a  wheel  was  off  the  phse- 
ton,  the  tandem  was  overturned,  Sylvie  Argenter,  in  the 
act  of  alighting,  was  thrown  forward  over  the  threshold 
of  the  open  shop-door,  Rod  Sherrett  was  lying  in  the 
road,  a  man  had  seized 'the  pony,  and  Duke  and  Red 
Squirrel  were  shattering  away  through  the  scared  Corner 
Village,  with  the  wreck  at  their  heels. 

Sylvie's  arm  was  bruised,  and  her  dress  torn  ;  that  was 
all.  She  felt  a  little  jarred  and  dizzy  at  first,  when  Mr. 
Ingraham  lifted  her  up,  and  Rodney  Sherrett,  picking  him 
self  out  of  the  dust  with  a  shake  and  a  stamp,  found  his 

own  bones  unbroken,  and  hurried  over  to  ask  anxiously 

for  he  was  a  kind-hearted  fellow  —  how  much  harm  he 
had. clone,  and  to  express  his  vehement  regret  at  the  "  hor 
rid  spill." 

Rod  Sherrett  and  Sylvie  Argenter  had  danced  together 
at  the  Roxeter  Assemblies,  and  the  little  Dorbury  "  Ger 
mans  ;  "  they  had  boated,  and  picknicked,  and  skated  in 
company,  but  to  be  tumbled  together  into  a  baker's  shop, 
torn  and  frightened,  and  dusty,  —  each  feeling,  also,  in  a 
great  scrape,  —  this  was  an  odd  and  startling  partnership. 
Sylvie  was  pale  ;  Rod  was  sorry ;  both  were  very  much 
demolished  as  to  dress  :  Sylvie's  hat  had  got  a  queer 
crush,  and  a  tip  that  was  never  intended  over  her  eyes  ; 
Rodney's  was  lying  in  the  street,  and  his  hair  was 
rumpled  and  curiously  powdered.  When  they  had  stood 
and  looked  at  each  other  an  instant  after  the  first  inquiry 
and  reply,  they  both  laughed.  Then  Rodney  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  walked  over  and  picked  up  his  hat.  . 

"  It  might  have  been  worse,"  he  said,  coming  back,  as 
Mr.  Ingraham  and  the  man  who  had  held  Sylvie's  pony 
took  the  latter  out  of  the  shafts  and  led  him  to  a  post  to 
fasten  him,  arid  then  proceeded  together,  as  well  as  they 


8  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

could,  to  lift  the  disabled  phaeton  and  roll  it  over  to  the 
blacksmith's  shop  to  be  set  right. 

"  You'll  be  all  straight  directly,"  he  said,  "  and  I'm 
only  thankful  you're  not  much  hurt.  But  I  am  in  a  mess. 
Whew  !  What  the  old  gentlema>r  will  say  if  Duke  don't 
come  out  of  it  comfortable,  is  something  I'd  rather  not 
look  ahead  to.  I  must  go  on  and  see.  I'll  be  back  again, 
and  if  there's  anything  —  anything  more"  he  added  with 
a  droll  twinkle,  "  that  I  can  do  for  you,  I  shall  be  happy, 
and  will  try  to  do  it  a  little  better." 

The  feminine  Ingrahams  were  all  around  Sylvie  by 
this  time:  Mrs.  Ingraham,  and  Ray,  and  Dot.  They 
bemoaned  and  exclaimed,  and  were  "  thankful  she'd  come 
off  as  she  had  ;  "  and  "  she'd  better  step  right  in  and  come 
up-stairs."  The  village  boys  were  crowding  round,  —  all 
those  who  had  not  been  in  time  to  run  after  the  "  smash," 
—  and  Sylvie  gladly  withdrew  to  the  offered  shelter.  Rod 
Sherrett  gave  his  hair  a  toss  or  two  with  his  hands,  struck 
the  dust  off  his  wide-awake,  put  it  on,  and  walked  off 
down  the  hill,  through  the  staring  and  admiring  crowd. 


UP-STAIRS.  » 

CHAPTER  II. 

TIP-STAIRS. 

THE  two  Ingraham  girls  had  been  sitting  in  their  own 
room  over  the  shop  when  the  accident  occurred,  and  it 
was  there  they  now  took  Sylvie  Argenter,  to  have  her 
dress  tacked  together  again,  and  to  wash  her  face  and 
hands  and  settle  her  hair  and  hat.  Mrs.  Ingraham  came 
bustling  after  with  "  arnicky  "  for  the  bruised  arm.  They 
were  all  very  delighted  and  important,  having  the  great 
Mr.  Argenter 's  daughter  quite  to  themselves  in  the  inti 
macy  of  "  up-stairs,"  to  wait  upon  and  take  care  of.  Mrs. 
Ingraham  fussed  and  "  my-deared "  a  good  deal ;  her 
daughters  took  it  with  more  outward  calmness.  Although 
baker's  daughters,  they  belonged  to  the  present  youthful 
generation,  born  to  best  education  at  the  public  schools, 
sewing-machines,  and  universal  double-skirted  full-fash 
ions  ;  and  had  read  novels  of  society  out  of  the  Roxeter 
town  library. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  time  after  the  bathing  and 
mending  and  re-arranging  were  all  done.  The  axle  of  the 
phseton  had  been  split,  and  must  be  temporarily  patched 
up  and  banded.  There  was  nothing  for  Sylvie  to  do  but 
to  sit  quietly  there  in  the  old-fashioned,  dimity-covered 
easy-chair  which  they  gave  her  by  the  front  window,  and 
wait.  Meanwhile,  she  observed  and  wondered  much. 

She  had  never  got  out  of  the  Argenter  and  Highford 
atmosphere  before.  She  didn't  know  —  as  we  don't  about 
the  moon  —  whether  there  might  be  atmosphere  for  the 
lesser  and  subsidiary  world.  But  here  she  found  herself 


10  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

in  the  bedroom  of  two  girls  who  lived  over  a  bake-shop, 
and,  really,  it  seemed  they  actually  did  live,  much  after 
the  fashion  of  other  people.  There  were  towels  on  the 
stand,  a  worked  pincushion  on  the  toilet,  white  shades 
and  red  tassels  to  the  windows,  this  comfortable  easy-chair 
beside  one  and  a  low  splint1  rocker  in  the  other,  —  with 
queer,  antique-looking  soft  footstools  of  dark  cloth,  tam 
boured  in  bright  colors  before  each,  —  white  quilted  cov 
ers  on  table  and  bureau,  and  positively,  a  striped,  knitted 
foot-spread  in  scarlet  and  white  yarn,  folded  across  the 
lower  end  of  the  bed. 

She  had  never  thought  of  there  being  anything  at  In- 
graham's  Corner  but  a  shop  on  a  dusty  street,  with,  she 
supposed,  —  only  she  never  really  supposedabout.it, — 
some  sort  of  places  behind  and  above  it,  under  the  same 
roof,  for  the  people  to  get  away  into  when  they  wern't 
selling  bread,  to  cook,  and  eat,  and  sleep,  she  had  never 
exactly  imagined  how,  but  of  course  not  as  they  did  in 
real  houses  that  were  not  shops.  And  when  Mrs.  Ingra- 
ham,  who  had  bustled  off  down-stairs,  came  shuffling  up 
again  as  well  as  she  could  with  both  hands  full  and  her 
petticoats  in  her  way,  and  appeared  bearing  a  cup  of  hot 
tea  and  a  plate  of  spiced  gingerbread, — the  latter  not 
out  of  the  shop,  but  home-made,  and  out  of  her  own  best 
parlor  cupboard,  —  she  perceived  almost  with  bewilder 
ment,  that  cup  and  plate  were  of  spotless  china,  and  the 
spoon  was  of  real,  worn,  bright  silver.  She  might  abso 
lutely  put  these  things  to  her  own  lips  without  distaste  or 
harm. 

"  It'll  do  you  good  after  your  start,"  said  kindly  Mrs. 
Ingraham. 

The  difference  came  in  with  the  phraseology.  A  silver 
spoon  is  a  silver  spoon,  but  speech  cannot  be  rubbed  up 


UP-STAIES.  11 

for  occasion.  Sylvie  thought  she  must  mean  "before  her 
start,  about  which  she  was  growing  anxious. 

"  O,  I'm  sorry  you  should  have  taken  so  much  trouble," 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  wonder  if  the  phaeton  will  be  ready 
soon?"  :  * 

"  Mr.  Ingraham  he's  got  back,"  replied  the  lady.  "  He 
says  Rylocks'll  be  through  vith  it  in  about  half  an  hour. 
Don't  you  be  a  mite  concerned.  Jest  set  here  and  drink 
your  tea,  and  rest.  Dot,  I  guess  you'd  as  good's  come 
down-stairs.  I  shall  be  wantin'  you  with  them  fly  nets. 
Your  father's  fetched  home  the  frames." 

Ray  Ingraham  sat  in  the  side  window,  and  crocheted 
thread  edging,  —  of  which  she  had  already  yards  rolled 
up  and  pinned  together  in  a  white  ball  upon  her  lap,  — 
while  Sylvie  sipped  her  tea. 

The  side  window  looked  out  into  a  shady  little  garden- 
s.pot,  in  the  front  corner  of  which  grew  a  grand  old  elm, 
which  reached  around  with  beneficent,  beautiful  branches, 
and  screened  also  a  part  of  the  street  aspect.  Seen  from 
within,  and  from  under  these  great,  green,  swaying  limbs, 
—  the  same  here  in  the  village  as  out  in  free  field  or  for 
est,  —  the  street  itself  seemed  less  dusty,  less  common, 
less  impossible  to  pause  upon  for  anything  but  to  buy 
bread,  or  mend  a  wheel,  or  get  a  horse  shod. 

"  How  different  it  is,  in  behind  !  "  said  Sylvie,  speaking 
out  involuntarily. 

Ray  shot  a  quick  look  at  her  from  her  bright  dark  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  it  is,  —  almost  everywheres,"  she  answered. 
"  I've  got  turned  round  so,  sometimes,  with  people  and 
places,  until  they  never  seemed  the  same  again." 

If  Ray  had  not  said  "  everywheres,"  Sylvie  would  not 
have  been  reminded ;  but  that  word  sent  her,  in  recollec 
tion,  out  to  the  house-front  and  the  shop-sign  again.  Ray 


12 


THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 


knew  better ;  she  was  a  good  scholar,  but  she  heard  her 
mother  and  others  like  her  talk  vernacular  every  day.  It 
was  a  wonder  she  shaded  off  from  it  as  delicately  as 
she  did. 

Ray  Ingraham,  or  Rachel,  —  for  that  was  her  name, 
and  her  sister's  was  Dorothy,  though  these  had  been  short 
ened  into  two  as  charming,  ppt  little  appellatives  as  could 
have  been  devised  by  the  most  elegant  intention,  —  was 
a  pretty  girl,  with  her  long-lashed,  quick-glancing  dark 
eyes,  her  hair,  that  crimped  naturally  and  fell  off  in  a 
deep,  soft  shadow  from  her  temples,  her  little  mouth, 
neatly  dimpled  in,  and  the  gypsy  glow  of  her  clear, 
bright  skin.  Dot  was  different :  she  was  dark  too,  not 
so  dark ;  her  eyes  were  full,  brilliant  gray,  with  thick, 
short  lashes ;  she  was  round  and  comfortable :  nose, 
cheeks,  chin,  neck,  waist,  hands  ;  her  mouth  was  large, 
with  white  teeth  that  showed  easily  and  broadly,  instead 
of,  like  Ray's,  with  just  a  quiver  and  a  glimmer.  She  was 
like  her  mother.  She  looked  the  smart,  buxom,  common- 
sense  village  girl  to  perfection.  Ray  had  the  hint  of 
something  higher  and  more  delicate  about  her,  though 
she  had  the  trigness,  and  readiness,  and  every-day-ness 
too. 

Sylvie  sat  silent  after  this,  and  looked  at  her,  wonder 
ing,  more  than  she  had  wondered  about  the  furniture. 
Thinking,  "  how  many  girls. there  were  in  the  world  !  All 
sorts  —  everywhere  !  What  did  they  all  do,  and  find  to 
care  for  ?  "  These  were  not  the  "  other  "  girls  of  whom 
her  mother  had  blandly  said  that  she  could  show  kind 
nesses  by  taking  them  to  drive.  Those  were  such  as 
Aggie  Townsend,  the  navy  captain's  widow's  daughter,  — 
nice,  but  poor ;  girls  whom  everybody  noticed,  of  course, 
but  who  hadn't  it  in  their  power  to  notice  anybody.  That 


UP-STAIRS.  13 

made  such  a  difference  !  These  were  otherer  yet !  And 
for  all  that  they  were  girls,  —  girls  !  Ever  so  much  of 
young  life,  and  glow,  and  companionship,  ever  so  much  of 
dream,  and  hope,  and  possible  story,  is  in  just  that  little 
plural  of  five  letters.  A  company  of  girls  !  Heaven  only 
knows  what  there  is  not  represented,  and  suggested,  and 
foreshadowed  there ! 

Sylvie  Argenter,  with  all  her  nonsense,  had  a  way  of 
putting  herself,  imaginatively,  into  other  people's  places. 
She  used  to  tell  her  mother,  when  she  was  a  little  child 
and  said  her  hymns,  —  which  Mrs.  Argenter,  not  having 
any  very  fresh,  instant  spiritual  life,  I  am  afraid,  out  of 
which  to  feed  her  child,  chose  for  her  in  dim  remembrance 
of  what  had  been  thought  good  for  herself  when  she  was 
little,  —  that  she  "  didn't  know  exactly  as  she  did  '  thank 
the  goodness  and  the  grace  that  on  her  birth  had  smiled.' ' 
She  "  should  like  pretty  well  to  have  been  a  little  —  Lap 
land  girl  with  a  sledge  ;  or  —  a  Chinese  ;  or  —  a  kitchen 
girl ;  a  little  while,  I  mean  !  " 

She  had  a  way  of  intimacy  with  the  servants  which 
Mrs.  Argenter  found  it  hard  to  check.  She  liked  to  get 
into  Jane's  room  when  she  was  "  doing  herself  up  "  of  an 
afternoon,  and  look  over  her  cheap  little  treasures  in  her 
band-box  and  chest-drawer.  She  made  especial  love  to  a 
carnelian  heart,  and  a  twisted  gold  ring  with  two  clasped 
hands  on  it. 

"  I  think  it's  real  nice  to  have  only  two  or  three  things, 
and  to  '  clean  yourself  up,'  and  to  have  a  '  Sunday  out ! '  " 
she  said. 

Mrs.  Argenter  was  anxiously  alarmed  at  the  child's  low 
tastes.  Yet  these  were  very  practicably  compatible  with 
the  alternations  of  importance  in  being  driven  about  in 
her  father's  barouche,  taking  Aggie  Townsend  up  on  the 
road,  and  "  setting  her  down  at  the  small  gray  house." 


14  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

Sylvie  thought,  this  afternoon,  looking  at  Ray  Ingra- 
ham,  in  her  striped  lilac  and  white  calico,  with  its  plaited 
waist  and  cross-banded,  machine-stitched  double  skirt, 
sitting  by  her  shady  window,  beyond  which,  behind  the 
garden  angle,  rose  up  the  red  brick  wall  of  the  bakehouse, 
whence  came  a  warm,  sweet  smell  of  many  new-drawn 
loaves,  —  looking  around  within,  at  the  snug  tidiness  of 
the  simple  room,  and  even  out  at  the  street  close  by,  with 
its  stir  and  curious  interest,  yet  seen  from  just  as  real  a 
shelter  as  she  had  in  her  own  chamber  at  home,  —  that 
it  might  really  be  nice  to  be  a  baker's  daughter  and  live 
in  the  village, — "when  it  wasn't  your  own  fault,  and 
you  couldn't  help  it." 

Ray  nodded  to  some  one  out  of  her  window. 

Sylvie  saw  a  bright  color  come  up  in  her  cheeks,  and  a 
sparkle  into  her  eyes  as  she  did  so,  while  a  little  smile, 
that  she  seemed  to  think  was  all  to  herself,  crept  about 
her  mouth  and  lingered  at  the  dimpled  corners.  There 
was  an  expression  as  if  she  hid  herself  quite  away  in  some 
consciousness  of  her  own,  from  any  recollection  of  the 
strange  girl  sitting  by. 

The  strange  girl  glanced  from  her  window,  and  saw 
a  young  carpenter  with  his  box  of  tools  go  past  under  the 
elm,  with  some  sort  of  light  subsiding  also  in  like  manner 
from  his  face.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  —  but  the 
sleeves  were  white,  —  and  his  straw  hat  was  pushed  back 
from  his  forehead,  about  which  brown  curls  lay  damp  with 
heat.  Sylvie  did  not  believe  he  had  even  touched  his 
hat,  when  he  had  looked  up  through  the  friendly  elm 
boughs  and  bowed  to  the  village  girl  in  her  shady  corner. 
His  "hands  were  full,  of  course.  Such  people's  hands  were 
almost  always  full.  That  was  the  reason  they  did  not 
learn  such  things.  But  how  cute  it  had  been  of  Ray  In- 


UP-STAIRS.  15 

graham  not  to  sit  in  the  front  window  !  He  was  certain  to 
come  by,  too,  she  supposed.  To  be  sure  ;  that  was  the 
street.  Ray  Ingraham  would  not  have  cared  to  live  up  a 
long  avenue,  to  wait  for  people  to  come  on  purpose,  in 
carriages.  ^ 

She  got  as  far  as  this  in  her  thinkings,  at  the  same  mo 
ment  that  she  came  to  the  bottom  of  her  3up  of  tea.  And 
then  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Rylocks,  rolling  the  phyoton 
across  from  the  smithy. 

"  What  a  funny  time  I  have  had  !  And  how  kind  you 
have  all  been  ! "  she  said,  getting  up.  "  I  am  ever  so 
much  obliged,  Miss  Ingraham.  I  wonder  "  —  and  then, 
suddenly,  she  thought  it  might  not  be  quite  civil  to  won 
der. 

Ray  Ingraham  laughed. 

"  So  do  1 1 "  she  said  quickly,  with  a  bright  look.  She 
knew  well  enough  what  Sylvie  stopped  at. 

Each  of  these  two  girls  wondered  if  there  would  ever 
be  any  more  "  getting  in  behind  "  for  them,  as  regarded 
each  other,  in  their  two  different  lives. 

As  Sylvie  Argenter  came  out  at  the  shop-door,  Rodney 
Sherrett  appeared  at  the  same  point,  safely  mounted  on 
the  runaway  Duke.  The  team  had  been  stopped  below 
at  the  river  ;  he  had  found  a  stable  and  a  saddle,  had  left 
Red  Squirrel  and  the  broken  vehicle  to  be  sent  for,  and 
was  going  home,  much  relieved  and  assured  by  being  able 
to  present  himself  upon  his  father's  favorite  roadster, 
whole  in  bones  and  with  ungrazed  skin. 

The  street  boys  stood  round  again,  as  he  dismounted 
to  make  fresh  certainty  of  Sylvie's  welfare,  handed  her 
into  her  photon,  and  then,  springing  to  the  saddle,  rode 
away  beside  her,  down  the  East  Dorbury  road. 


16  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Mrs.  Argenter  was  sitting  with  her  worsted  work  in 
the  high,  many-columned  terrace  piazza  which  gave  gran 
deur  to  the  great  show-house  that  Mr.  Argenter  had 
built  some  five  years  since,  when  Sylvie,  with  Rod  Sher- 
rett  beside  her,  came  driving  up  the  long  avenue,  or,  as 
Mrs.  Argenter  liked  to  call  it,  out  of  the  English  novels, 
the  approach.  She  laid  back  her  canvas  and  wools  into 
the  graceful  Fayal  basket-stand,  and  came  down  the  first 
flight  of  stone  steps  to  meet  them. 

"  How  late  you  are,  Sylvie  !  I  had  begun  to  be  quite 
worried,"  she  said,  when  Sylvie  dropped  the  reins  around 
the  dasher  and  stood  up  in  the  low  carriage,  nodding  at 
her  mother.  She  felt  quite  brave  and  confident  about  the 
accident,  now  that  Rodney  Sherrett  had  come  all  the  way 
with  her  to  the  very  door,  to  account  for  it  and  to  help 
her  out  with*  the  story. 

Rodney  lifted  his  hat  to  the  lady. 

"  We've  had  a  great  spill,  Mrs.  Argenter.  All  my 
fault,  and  Red  Squirrel's.  Miss  Argenter  has  brought 
home  more  than  I  have  from  the  melee.  I  started  with 
a  tandem,  and  here  I  am  with  only  Gray  Duke  and  a  bor 
rowed  saddle.  It  was  out  at  Ingraham's  Corner,  —  a 
quick  turn,  you  know,  —  and  Miss  Argenter  had  just 
stopped  when  Squirrel  sprang  round  upon  her.  My 
trap  is  pretty  much  into  kindlings,  but  there  are  no  bones 
broken.  You  must  let  me  send  Rodgers  round  on  his  way 
to  town  to-morrow,  to  take  the  phaeton  to  the  builder's. 
It  wants  a  new  axle.  I'm  awful  sorry  ;  but  after  all  " 
with  a  bright  smile,  —  "  I  can't  think  it  altogether  an  ill 
wind,  — for  me,  at  any  rate.  I  couldn't  help  enjoying 
the  ride  home." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  could  help  enjoying  the  whole  of 


UP-STAIES. 


it,  except  the  very  minute  of  the  tip-out  itself,  before  you 
knew,"  said  Sylvie,  laughing. 

"  Well,  it  was  a  lark  ;  but  the  worst  is  coming.  I've 
got  to  go  home  all  alone.  I  wish  you'd  come  and  tell  the 
tale  for  me,  Miss  Sylvie.  I  shouldn't  be  half  so  afraid  !  " 


18  THE   OTHER  GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  III. 

TWO  TEIPS  IN  THE  TKAIN. 

THE  seven  o'clock  morning  train  was  starting  from 
Dorbury  Upper  Village. 

Early  business  men,  mechanics,  clerks,  shop-girls,  sew 
ing-girls,  office-boys,  —  these  made  up  the  list  of  passen 
gers.  Except,  perhaps,  some  travellers  now  and  then, 
bound  for  a  first  express  from  Boston,  or  an  excursion 
party  to  take  a  harbor  steamer  for  a  day's  trip  to  Nantas- 
ket  or  Nahant. 

Did  you  ever  contrast  one  of  these  trains  —  when  per 
haps  you  were  such  traveller  or  excursionist  —  with  the 
after,  leisurely,  comfortable  one  at  ten  or  eleven  ;  when 
gentlemen  who  only  need  to  be  in  the  city  through  bank 
ing  hours,  and  ladies  bent  on  calls  or  elegant  shopping, 
come  chatting  and  rustling  to  their  seats,  and  hold  a  little 
drawing-room  exchange  in  the  twenty- five  minutes'  trip  ? 

If  you  have,  —  and  if  you  have  a  little  sympathetic 
imagination  that  fills  out  hints,  —  you  have  had  a  glimpse 
of  some  of  these  "  other  girls  "  and  the  thing  that  daily 
living  is  to  them,  with  which  my  story  means  to  concern 
itself. 

Have  you  noticed  the  hats,  with  the  rose  or  the  feather 
behind  or  at  top,  scrupulously  according  to  the  same  dic 
tate  of  style  that  rules  alike  for  seven  and  ten  o'clock, 
but  which  has  often  to  be  worn  through  wet  and  dry, 
till  the  rose  has  been  washed  by  too  many  a  shower,  and 
the  feather  blown  by  too  many  a  dusty  wind,  to  stand  for 
anything  but  a  sign  that  she  knows  what  should  be 


TWO   TRIPS  IN  THE   TRAIX.  21 

with  an  air  of  taking  credit  to  himself,  as  she  glanced  at 
him  ;  and  another,  in  a  sober  old  gray  suit,  with  only 
a  black  ribbon  knotted  under  his  linen  collar,  turned 
slightly  the  other  way  as  she  approached,  and  with  some 
thing  like  a  frown  between  his  brows,  looked  out  of  the 
window  at  a  wood-pile. 

Marion's  cheeks  were  a  tint  brighter,  and  her  white 
teeth  seemed  to  flash  out  a  yet  more  determined  smile,  as, 
passing  him  by,  she  seated  herself  writh  friendly  bustle 
among  some  girls  a  little  behind  him. 

"  In  again,  Marion  ?  "  said  one.  "  I  thought  you'd 
left." 

"  Only  in  for  a  transient,"  said  Marion,  with  a  cer 
tain  clear  tone  that  reminded  one  of  the  stage-trainer's 
direction  to  "  speak  to  the  galleries."  "  Nellie  Burton  is 
gick,  and  Lufton  sent  for  me.  I'll  do  for  a  month  or  so, 
com Jike  it  pretty  well ;  then  I  shall  have  a  tiff,  I  sup- 
them.  ]  fling  it  up  again ;  I  can't  stand  being  ordered 

Marion  Kenyan  that."  _cCr,  sweet,  cican  sum 

mer  morning  in  a  spaie  new  lea-colored  zephyrine  polo 
naise  with  three  little  frills  edged  with  tiny  brown  braid, 
which  set  it  off  trimly  with  the  due  contrasting  depth  of 
color,  and  cost  nearly  nothing  except  the  stitches  and  the 
kerosene  she  burned  late  in  the  hot  July  nights  in  her 
only  time  for  finishing  it.  She  had  covered  her  little  old 
curled  leaf  of  a  hat  with  a  tea-colored  corner  that  had 
been  left,  and  puffed  it  up  high  and  light  to  the  point  of 
the  new  style,  with  brown  veil  tissue  that  also  floated  off 
in  an  abundant  cloudy  grace  behind  ;  and  she  had  such 
an  air  of  breezy  and  ecstatic  elegance  as  she  came  beam 
ing  and  hastening  into  the  early  car,  that  nobody  really 
looked  down  to  see  that  the  underskirt  was  the  identical 
black  brilliantine  that  had  done  service  all  the  spring  in 


22  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

can  always  get  a  temporary  there.  Save  up  a  month, 
and  then  put  into  port  and  refit.  That's  the  way  I  do." 

"  But  what  does  it  come  to,  after  all's  said  and  done? 
and  what  if  you  hadn't  the  port  ?  "  asked  Hannah  Up- 
shaw,  the  girl  with  the  shawl  on,  who  never  wore  suits. 

Marion  Kent  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  don't  know,  yet.  I  take  things  as  they  come  to  me. 
I  don't  pretend  to  calculate  for  anybody  else.  I  know 
one  thing,  though,  there  is  other  things  to  be  done,  —  and 
it  isn't  sewing-machines  either,  if  you  can  once  get 
started.  And  when  I  can  see  my  way  clear,  I  mean  to 
start.  See  if  I  don't !  " 

The  train  stopped  at  the  Pomantic  station.  The  young 
man  in  the  gray  clothes  rose  up,  took  something  from 
under  the  car-seat  and  went  out.  What  he  had  with 
him  was  a  carpenter's  box.  It  was  the  same  youth  who 
had  greeted  Ray  Ingraham  from  beneath  the  elm  branches. 
As  the  train  got  slowly  under  way  again,  Marion  looked 
straight  out  at  her  window  into  Frank  Sunderline's  face, 
and  bowed, —  very  modestly  and  sweetly  bowed.  He  was 
waiting  for  that  instant  on  the  platform,  until  the  track 
should  be  clear  and  he  could  cross. 

What  he  caught  in  Marion's  look,  as  she  turned  it  full 
upon  him,  nobody  could  see  ;  but  there  was  a  quieter  ear 
nest  in  it,  certainly,  when  she  turned  back  ;  and  the  young 
man  had  responded  to  her  salutation  with  a  reiaxing 
glance  of  friendly  pleasantness  that  seemed  more  native  to 
his  face  than  the  frown  of  a  few  minutes  before. 

Marion  Kent  had  several  selves ;  several  relations,  at 
tiny  rate,  into  which  she  could  put  herself  with  others. 
I  think  she  showed  young  Sunderline,  for  that  instant,  out 
of  gentler,  questioning,  almost  beseeching  eyes,  a  some 
thing  she  could  not  show  to  the  whole  car-full  with  whom 


TWO   TRIPS   IN   THE  TRAIN.  23 

at'  the  moment  of  her  entrance  she  had  been  in  rapport, 
through  frills  and  puffs  and  flutters,  into  which  she  had 
allowed  her  consciousness  to  pass.  Behind  the  little  win 
dow  he  could  only  see  a  face  ;  a  face  quieted  down  from  its 
gay  flippancy  ;  a  face  that  showed  itself  purposely  and 
simply  to  him ;  eyes  that  said,  "  What  was  that  you 
thought  of  me  just  now  ?  Don't  think  it !  " 

They  were  old  neighbors  and  child-friends.  They  had 
grown  up  together  ;  had  they  been  growing  away  from 
each  other  in  some  things  since  they  had  been  older  ? 
Often  it  appeared  so  ;  but  it  was  Marion  chiefly  who 
seemed  to  change  ;  then,  all  at  once,  in  some  unspoken 
and  intangible  way,  for  a  moment  like  this,  she  seemed 
to  come  suddenly  back  again,  or  he  seemed  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  that  in  her,  hidden,  not  altered,  which  might 
come  back  one  of  these  days.  Was  it  a  glimpse,  perhaps, 
like  the  sight  the  Lord  has  of  each  one  of  us,  always  ? 
Meanwhile,  what  of  Ray  Ingraham  ? 
Ray  Ingraham  was  sweet,  and  proper,  and  still ;  just 
what  Frank  Snnderline  thought  was  prettiest  and  nicest 
for  a  woman  to  be.  He  was  always  reminded  by  her  ways 
of  what  it  would  be  so  pretty  and  nice  for  Marion  Kent 
to  be.  But  Marion  would  sparkle  ;  and  it  is  so  hard  to 
be  still  and  sparkle  too.  He  liked  the  brightness  and  the 
airiness  ;  a  little  of  it,  near  to  ;  he  did  not  like  a  whole 
car-full,  or  room-full,  or  street  full, — he  did  not  like  to 
see  a  woman  sparkle  all  round. 

Mr.  Ingraham  had  come  into  Dorbury  Upper  Village 
some  half  dozen  years  since ;  had  leased  the  bakery, 
house,  and  shop ;  and  two  years  afterward,  Rachel  had 
come  home  to  stay.  She  had  been  left  in  Boston  with 
her  grandmother  when  the  family  had  moved  out  of  the 
city,  that  she  might  keep  on  a  while  with  the  school  that 


24  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

she  was  used  to  and  stood  so  well  in  ;  with  her  Chapel 
classes,  also,  where  she  heard  literature  and  history  lec 
tures,  each  once  a  week.  Ray  could  not  bear  to  leave 
them,  nor  to  give  up  her  Sunday  lessons  in  the  dear  old 
Mission  Rooms.  Dot  was  three  years  younger  ;  she  could 
begin  again  anywhere,  and  their  mother  could  not  spare 
both.  Besides,  "  what  Ray  got  she  could  always  be  giving 
to  Dot  afterwards."  That  is  not  so  easy,  and  by  no  means 
always  follows.  Dot  turned  out  the  mother's  girl,  —  the 
girl  of  the  village,  as  was  said  ;  practical,  comfortable, 
pleasant,  capable,  sensible.  Ray  was  something  of  all 
these,  with  a  touch  of  more  ;  alive  in  a  higher  nature, 
awakened  to  receive  through  upper  channels,  sensitive  to 
some  things  that  neither  pleased  nor  troubled  Mrs.  Ingra- 
ham  and  Dot. 

It  took  a  good  while  to  come  to  know  a  girl  like  Ray 
Ingraham  ;  most  of  her  young  acquaintance  felt  the  step 
up  that  they  must  take  to  stand  fairly  beside  her,  or  come 
intimately  near.  Frank  Sunderline  felt  it  too,  in  certain 
ways,  and  did  not  suppose  that  she  could  see  in  him  more 
than  he  saw  in  himself :  a  plain  fellow,  good  at  his  trade, 
or  going  to  be  ;  bright  enough  to  know  brightness  in  other 
people  when  he  came  across  it,  and  with  enough  of  what, 
independent  of  circumstances,  goes  to  the  essential  making 
of  a  gentleman,  to  perceive  and  be  attracted  by  the  deli 
cate  gentleness  that  makes  a  lady. 

That  was  just  what  Ray  Ingraham  did  see ;  only  he 
hardly  set  it  down  in  his  self-estimate  at  its  full  value. 

Do  you  perceive,  story-reader,  story-raveller,  that  Frank 
Sunderline  was  not  quite  in  love  with  either  of  these 
girls  ?  Do  you  see  that  it  is  not  a  matter  of  course  that 
he  should  be  ? 

I  can  tell  you,  you  girls  who  make  a  romance  out  of  the 


TWO   TRIPS  IN   THE   TRAIN.  25 


first  word,  and  who  can  tell  from  the  first  chapter  how  it 
will  all  end,  that  you  will  make  great  mistakes  if  you  go 
to  interpreting  life  so,  —  your  own,  or  anybody's  else. 

I  can  tell  you  that  men  —  those  who  are  good  for  very 
much  —  come  often  more  slowly  to  their  life-conclusions 
than  you  think  ;  that  woman-nature  is  a  good  deal  to  a 
man,  and  is  meant  to  be,  in  gradual  bearing  and  influ 
ence,  in  the  shaping  of  his  perception,  the  working  of 
comparison,  the  coming  to  all  understanding  of  his  own 
want,  and  the  forming  of  his  ideal,  —  yes,  even  in  the 
mere  general  pleasantness  and  gentle  use  of  intercourse, 
—  before  the  individual  woman  reveals  herself,  slowly  or 
suddenly,  as  the  one  only  central  need,  and  motive,  and 
reward,  and  satisfying,  that  the  world  holds  and  has  kept 
for  him.  For  him  to  gain  or  to  lose  :  either  way,  to  have 
mightily  to  do  with  that  soul-forging  and  shaping  that . 
the  Lord,  in  his  handling  of  every  man,  is  about. 

That  night  they  all  came  out  together  in  the  last 
train.  Ray  Ingraham  had  gone  in  after  dinner  to  make 
some  purchases  for  her  mother,  and  had  been  to  see  some 
Chapel  friends.  Marion,  as  she  came  in  through  the  gate 
at  the  station,  saw  her  far  before,  walking  up  the  long 
platform  to  the  cars.  She  watched  her  enter  the  second 
in  the  line,  and  hastened  on,  making  up  her  mind  in 
stantly,  like  a  field  general,  to  her  own  best  manoeuvre. 
It  was  not  exactly  what  every  girl  would  have  done  ;  and 
therein  showed  her  generalship.  She  would  get  into  the 
same  carriage,  and  take  a  seat  with  her.  She  knew  very 
well  that  Frank  S underline  would  jump  on  at  Pomantic, 
his  day's  work  just  done.  If  he  came  and  spoke  to  Ray. 
he  should  speak  also  to  her.  She  did  not  risk  trying  which 
he  would  come  and  speak  to.  It  should  be,  that  joining 
•  them,  and  finding  it  pleasant,  he  should  not  quite  know 


L'b  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

which,  after  all,  had  most  made  it  so.  Different  as  they 
were,  she  and  Ray  Ingraham  toned  and  flavored  each 
other,  and  Marion  knew  it.  They  were  like  rose-color 
and  gray ;  or  like  spice  and  salt :  you  did  not  stop  to 
think  which  ruled  the  taste,  or  which  your  eye  separately 
rested  on.  Something  charming,  delicious,  resulted  of 
their  being  together ;  they  set  each  other  off,  and  helped 
each  other  out.  Then  it  was  something  that  Frank  S  un 
derline  should  see  that  Ray  would  let  her  be  her  friend  ; 
that  she  was  not  altogether  too  loud  and  pronounced  for 
her.  Ray  did  not  turn  aside  and  look  at  wood-piles,  and 
get  rid  of  her. 

Furthermore,  the  way  home  from  the  Dorbury  depot, 
for  Frank  and  Marion  both,  lay  past  the  bakery,  on  down 
the  under-hill  road. 

Marion  did  not  think  out  a  syllable  of  all  this  ;  she 
grasped  the  situation,  and  she  acted  in  an  instant.  I  told 
you  she  acted  like  a  general  in  the  field :  perhaps  neither 
she  nor  the  general  would  be  as  skillful,  always,  with  the 
maps  and  compasses,  and  time  to  plan  beforehand.  I 
do  not  think  Marion  was  ever  very  wise  in  her  fore 
thoughts. 

Beyond  Pomantic,  the  next  one  or  two  stations  took 
off  a  good  many  passengers,  so  that  they  had  their  part  of 
the  car  almost  to  themselves.  Frank  Sunderline  had  come 
in  and  taken  a  place  upon  the  other  side  ;  now  he  moved 
over  into  the  seat  behind  them,  accosting  them  pleasantly, 
but  not  interrupting  the  conversation  which  had  been 
busily  going  on  between  them  all  the  way.  Ray  was 
really  interested  in  some  things  Marion  had  brought  up 
to  notice  ;  her  face  was  intent  and  thoughtful ;  perhaps 
she  was  not  quite  so  pretty  when  she  was  set  thinking ; 
her  dimples  were  hidden  ;  but  Marion  was  beaming,  ex- 


TWO  TRIPS  IN  THE   TRAIN.  27 

hilarated  partly  by  her  own  talk,  somewhat  by  an  hon 
est,  if  half  mischievous  earnestness  in  her  subject,  and 
very  much  also  by  the  consciousness  of  the  young  me 
chanic  opposite,  within  observing  and  listening  distance. 
Marion  could  not  help  talking  over  her  shoulders,  more 
or  less,  always. 

"  Men  take  the  world  in  the  rough,  and  do  the  work  ; 
women  help,  and  come  in  for  the  finishing  off,"  said  lla- 
chel,  just  as  Frank  Sundeiiine  changed  his  place  and 
joined  them.  "  We  could  not  handle  those,  for  instance," 
she  said,  with  a  shy,  quiet  sign  toward  the  carpenter's 
tools,  and  lowering  her  already  gentle  voice. 

"  Men  break  in  the  fields,  and  plough,  and  sow,  and 
mow  ;  and  women  ride  home  on  the  loads,  —  is  that  it  ?  " 
said  Marion,  laughing,  and  snatching  her  simile  from  a 
hay-field  with  toppling  wagons,  that  the  train  was  at  that 
moment  skimming  by.  "  Well,  may  be !  All  is,  I  shall 
look  out  for  my  ride.  After  things  are  broken  in,  I  don't 
see  why  we  shouldn't  get  the  good  of  it." 

"  Value  is  what  things  stand  for,  or  might  procure, 
isn't  it  ?  "  said  Ray,  turning  to  Sunderline,  and  taking 
him  frankly  and  friendlily  into  the  conversation. 

"  No  fair  !  "  cried  Marion.  "  He  doesn't  understand  the 
drift  of  it.  Do  you,  see,  Mr.  Sunderline,  why  a  man 
should  be  paid  any  more  than  a  woman,  for  standing  be 
hind  a  counter  and  measuring  off  the  same  goods,  or  at  a 
desk  and  keeping  the  same  accounts  ?  I  don't !  That's 
what  I'm  complaining  of." 

"  That's  the  complaint  of  the  day,  I  know,"  said  Sun 
derline.  "  And  no  doubt  there's  a  good  deal  of  special 
unfairness  that  needs  righting,  and  will  get  it.  But  things 
don't  come  to  be  as  they  are  quite  without  a  reason, 
either.  There's  a  principle  in  it ;  you've  got  to  look  back 
to  that." 


28  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Marion,  gleefully  interrogatory,  and 
settling  herself  with  an  air  of  attention,  and  of  demurely 
giving  up  the  floor.  She  was  satisfied  to  listen,  if  only 
Frank  S  underline  would  talk. 

"  I  believe  I  see  what  you  meant,"  he  said  to  Ray. 
"  About  the  values  that  things  stand  for.  A  man  rep 
resents  a  certain  amount  of  power  in  the  world." 

"  O,  does  he  ?  "  put  in  Marion,  with  an  indescribable 
inflection.  "  I'm  glad  to  know." 

"  He  could  be  doing  some  things  that  a  woman  could 
not  do  at  all  —  was  never  meant  to  do.  He  stands  for 
so  much  force.  You  may  apply  things  as  you  please,  but 
if  you  don't  use  them  according  to  their  relative  capacity, 
the  unused  value  has  to  be  paid  for  —  somewhere." 

"  That's  a  nice  principle  !  "  said  Marion.  "  I  like  that. 
I  should  like  to  be  paid  for  what  I  might  be  good  for  !  " 

Frank  Sunderline  laughed. 

44  It's  a  good  principle  ;  because  by  it  things  settle  them 
selves,  in  the  long  run.  You  may  take  mahogany  or  pine 
to  make  a  table,  and  one  will  answer  the  common  conven 
ience  of  a  table  as  well  as  the  other ;  but  you  will  learn 
not  to  take  mahogany  when  the  pine  will  serve  the  pur 
pose.  You  will  keep  it  for  what  the  pine  wouldn't  be  fit 
for ;  which  wouldn't  come  to  pass  if  the  pine  weren't 
cheapest.  Women  wouldn't  get  those  places  to  tend 
counters  and  keep  books,  if  the  world  hadn't  found  out 
that  it  was  poor  economy,  as  a  general  rule,  to  take  men 
for  it." 

u  But  what  do  you  say  about  mental  power  ?  About 
pay  for  teaching,  for  instance  ?  "  asked  Ray. 

4'  Why,  you're  coming  round  to  my  side  !  "  exclaimed 
Marion.  "  I  should  really  like  to  know  where  you  are  ?  " 

44  I  am  wherever  I  can  get  nearest  to  the  truth  of 
things,"  said  Ray,  smiling. 


TWO   TRIPS   IN   THE   TRAIN.  29 

"  That,"  said  S underline,  "  is  one  of  the  specialties  that 
is  getting  righted.  Women  are  being  paid  more,  in  pro 
portion,  for  intellectual  service,  and  the  nearer  you  come 
to  the  pure  mental  power,  the  nearer  you  come  to  equal 
ity  in  recompense.  A  woman  who  writes  a  clever  book, 
or  paints  a  good  picture,  or  sculptures  a  good  statue,  can 
get  as  much  for  her  work  as  a  man.  But  where  time  is 
paid  for,  — where  it  is  personal  service,  —  the  old  princi 
ple  at  the  root  of  things  comes  in.  Men  open  up  the  wil 
dernesses,  men  sail  the  seas,  work  the  mines,  forge  the 
iron,  build  the  cities,  defend  the  nations  while  they  grow, 
do  the  physical  work  of  the  world,  make  way  for  all  the 
finishings  of  education  and  opportunity  that  come  after 
ward,  and  that  put  women  where  they  are  to-day.  And 
men  must  be  counted  for  such  things.  It  is  man's  work 
that  has  made  these  women's  platforms.  They  have  the 
capital  of  strength,  and  capital  draws  interest.  The  right 
of  the  strongest  isn't  necessarily  oppression  by  the 
strongest.  That's  the  way  I  look  at  it.  And  I  think  that 
what  women  lose  in  claim  they  gain  in  privilege." 

"  Only  when  women  come  to  knock  about  the  world 
without  any  claims,  they  don't  seem  to  get  much  privi 
lege,"  said  Marion. 

"  I  don't  know.  It  seems  rude  to  say  so,  perhaps,  but 
they  find  a  world  ready  made  to  knock  round  in,  don't 
they  ?  And  it  is  because  there's  so  much  done  that  they 
couldn't  have  done  themselves,  that  they  find  the  chances 
waiting  for  them  that  they  do.  And  the  chances  are 
multiplying  with  civilization,  all  the  time.  You  see  the 
question  really  goes  back  to  first  conditions,  and  lies  upon 
the  fact  that  first  conditions  may  come  back  any  day, — 
do  come  back,  here  and  there,  continually.  Put  man  and 
woman  together  on  the  primitive  earth,  and  it  is  the  man 


30  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

that  has  got  to  subdue  it ;  the  woman  is  what  Scripture 
calls  her,  —  the  helpmeet.  And  my  notion  is  that  if 
everything  was  right,  a  woman  never  should  have  to 
4  knock  round  alone.'  It  isn't  the  real  order  of  Provi 
dence.  I  think  Providence  has  been  very  much  interfered 
with." 

"  There  are  widows,"  said  Rachel,  gently. 

"  Yes  ;  and  the  '  fatherless  and  the  widows  '  are  every 
body's  charge  to  care  for.  I  said  —  if  things  were  right. 
I  wish  the  energy  was  spent  in  bringing  round  the  right 
that  is  used  up  in  fitting  things  to  the  wrong." 

"  They  say  there  are  too  many  women  in  the  world 
altogether  !  "  said  Marion,  squarely. 

"  I  guess  not  —  for  all  the  little  children,"  said  Frank 
Sunderline ;  and  his  tone  sounded  suddenly  sweet  and 
tender. 

He  was  helping  them  out  of  the  car,  now,  at  the  vil 
lage  station,  and  they  went  up  the  long  steps  to  the 
street.  All  three  walked  on  without  more  remark,  for  a 
little  way.  Then  Marion  broke  out  in  her  odd  fashion,  — 

"  Ray  Ingraham  !  you've  got  a  home  and  everything 
sure  and  comfortable.  Just  tell  me  what  you'd  do,  if  you 
were  a  widow  and  fatherless  or  anything,  and  nobody 
took  you  in  charge." 

"  The  thing  I  knew  best,  I  suppose,"  said  Rachel, 
quietly.  "I  think  very  likely  I  could  be  —  a  baker. 
But  I'm  certain  of  this  much,"  she  added  lightly.  "  I 
never  would  make  a  brick  loaf  ;  that  always  seemed  to 
me  a  man's  perversion  of  the  idea  of  bread." 

A  small  boy  was  coming  down  the  street  toward  them, 
as  she  spoke,  from  the  bake-shop  door  ;  a  brick  loaf 
sticking  out  at  the  two  ends  of  an  insufficient  wrap  of 
yellow  brown  paper  under  his  arm. 


TWO   TRIPS  IN  THE  TRAIN.  31 

As  Ray  glanced  on  beyond  him,  she  caught  sight  of 
that  which  put  the  brick  loaf,  and  their  talk,  instantly 
out  of  her  mind.  The  doctor's  chaise,  —  the  horse  fast 
ened  by  the  well-lgiown  strap  and  weight,  —  was  stand 
ing  before  the  house.  She  quickened  her  steps,  without 
speaking. 

"  I  say,"  called  out  the  urchin  at  the  same  moment, 
looking  up  at  her  as  he  passed  by  with  a  queer  expression 
of  mixed  curiosity  and  knowing  eagerness,  —  "  Yer  know 
yer  father's  sick  ?  Fit  —  or  sunthin'  !  " 

But  Ray  made  no  sign  —  to  anybody.  She  had  already 
hurried  in  toward  the  side  door,  through  the  yard,  under 
the  elm. 

A  neighborly  looking  woman  —  such  a  woman  as  al 
ways  "  steps  in  "  on  an  emergency  —  met  her  at  the 
entrance.  "  He's  dreadful  sick,  I'm  afraid,  dear,"  she 
said,  reaching  out  and  putting  her  hand  on  Ray's  shoulder. 
"  The  doctor's  up-stairs  ;  ben  there  an  hour.  And  I  be 
lieve  my  soul  every  identical  child  in  the  village's  ben 
sent  in  for  a  brick  loaf." 

Marion  and  Sunderline  kept  on  down  the  Underhill 
road.  The  conversation  was  broken  off.  It  was  a  start 
ling  occurrence  that  had  interrupted  it ;  but  it  does  not 
need  startling  occurrences  to  turn  aside  the  chance  of 
talk  just  when  one  would  have  said  something  that  one 
was  most  anxious  to  say.  A  very  little  straw  will  do  it. 
It  is  like  a  game  at  croquet.  The  ball  you  want  to  hit  lies 
close ;  but  it  is  not  quite  your  turn  ;  a  play  intervenes  ; 
and  before  you  can  be  allowed  your  strike  the  whole  atti 
tude  and  aspect  are  changed.  Nothing  lies  where  it  did 
H  minute  before.  You  yourself  are  driven  off,  and  forced 
into  different  combinations. 

Marion  wanted  to  try  Sunderline  with  certain  new  no- 


32  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

tions  —  certain  half-purposes  of  her  own,  in  the  latter 
part  of  this  walk  they  would  have  together.  Everything 
had  led  nicely  up  to  it  ;  when  here,  just  at  the  moment 
of  her  opportunity,  it  became  impossible  to  go  on  from 
where  they  were.  An  event  had  thrust  itself  in.  It  was 
not  seemly  to  disregard  it.  They  could  not  help  think 
ing  of  the  Ingrahams.  And  yet,  "  if  it  would  have 
done,"  Marion  Kent  could  have  put  off  her  sympathies, 
made  her  own  little  point,  and  then  gone  back  to  the 
sympathies  again,  just  as  really  and  truly,  ten  minutes 
afterward.  They  would  have  kept.  Why  are  things 
jostled  up  so  ? 

"  I  am  sorry  for  Ray,"  she  said,  presently. 

Frank  S underline,  with  a  grave  look,  nodded  his  head 
thoughtfully,  twice. 

"  If  anything  happens  to  Mr.  Ingraham,  won't  it  be 
strange  that  I  should  have  asked  her  what  I  did,  just  that 
minute  ?  " 

"What?  O,  yes!" 

It  had  fairly  been  jostled  out  of  the  young  man's  mind. 
They  walked  on  silently  again.  But  Marion  could  not 
give  it  np. 

u  I  don't  doubt  she  would  be  a  baker  ;  carry  on  the 
whole  concern,  —  if  there  was  money.  She  keeps  all  her 
father's  accounts,  now." 

"  Does  she  ?  " 

"  She  wouldn't  have  had  the  chance  if  there  had  been 
a  boy.  That's  what  I  say  isn't  fair." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  You  can't  change  the  way 
of  the  world.  There  isn't  anything  to  hinder  a  woman's 
doing  work  like  that,  —  even  going  on  with  it,  as  you 
say,  —  when  it  is  set  for  her  by  special  circumstances.  It's 
natural,  and  a  duty ;  and  the  world  will  treat  her  well, 


TWO   TRIPS  IN  THE   TRAIN.  38 

and  think  the  more  of  her.  Things  are  so  that  it  is  get 
ting  easier  every  day  for  it  to  be  done.  The  facilities  of 
the  times  can't  help  serving  women  as  much  as  men.  But 
people  won't  generally  bring  up  their  daughters  to  the 
work  or  the  prospects  that  they  do  their  sons,  simply  be 
cause  they  can't  depend  upon  them  in  the  same  way  after 
wards.  If  a  girl  marries,  —  and  she  ought  to  if  she  can, 
right"— 

"  And  what  if  she  has  to,  if  she  can,  wrong  ?  " 

"  Then  she  interferes  with  Providence  again.  She 
hasn't  patience.  She  takes  what  wasn't  meant  for  her, 
and  she  misses  what  was  ;  whether  it's  work,  or  —  some 
body  to  work  for  her." 

They  were  coming  near  Mrs.  Kent's  little  white  gate. 

"  I've  a  great  mind  to  tell  you,"  said  Marion,  "  I  don't 
have  anybody  to  help  me  judge." 

Sunderline  was  a  little  disconcerted.  It  is  a  difficult 
position  for  a  young  man  to  find  himself  in  :  that  of  sud 
denly  elected  confidant  and  judge  concerning  a  young 
woman's  personal  affairs ;  unless,  indeed,  he  be  quite 
ready  to  seek  and  assume  the  permanent  privilege.  It  is 
a  hazardous  appeal  for  a  young  woman  to  make.  It  may 
win  or  lose,  strengthen  or  disturb,  much. 

"  Your  mother  "  —  began  Sunderline. 

"  O,  mother  doesn't  see ;  she  doesn't  understand. 
How  can  she,  living  as  she  does  ?  I  could  make  her  ad 
vise  me  to  suit  myself.  She  never  goes  about.  The 
world  has  run  ahead  of  her.  She  says  I  must  conclude 
as  I  think  best." 

Sunderline  was  silent. 

"  I've  a  chance,"  said  Marion,  "  if  I  will  take  it.  A 
chance  to  do  something  that  I  like,  something  that  I 
think  I  could^do.  I  can't  stand  the  shops  ;  there's  a  plenty 
3 


34  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

of  girls  that  are  crazy  for  the  places  ;  let  them  have  'em. 
And  I  can't  stay  at  home  and  iron  lace  curtains  for  other 
folks,  or  go  round  to  rip  up  and  make  over  other  folks' 
old  dirty  carpets.  I  don't  mean  mother  shall  do  it  much 
longer.  This  is  what  I  can  do :  I  can  get  on  to  the  lec 
ture  list,  for  reading  and  reciting.  The  Leverings,  —  you 
remember  Virginia  Levering,  who  gave  a  reading  here 
last  winter ;  her  father  was  with  her,  —  Hamilton  Lev 
ering,  the  elocutionist  ?  Well,  I  know  them  very  well ; 
I've  got  acquainted  with  them  since  ;  they  say  they'll 
help  me,  and  put  me  forward.  Mr.  Levering  will  give 
me  lessons  and  get  rne  some  evenings.  He  thinks  I  would 
do  well.  And  next  year  they  mean  to  go  out  West,  and 
want  me  to  go  with  them.  Would  you  ?  " 

Marion  looked  eagerly  and  anxiously  in  Sunderline's 
face  as  she  asked  the  question.  He  could  not  help  seeing 
that  she  cared  what  he  might  think.  And  on  his  part, 
he  could  not  help  caring  a  good  deal  what  she  might  do. 
He  did  not  like  to  see  this  girl,  whom  he  had  known  and 
been  friends  with  from  childhood,  spoilt.  There  was 
good,  honest  stuff  in  her,  in  spite  of  her  second-rate  van 
ities  and  half-bred  ambitions.  If  she  would  only  grow 
out  of  these,  what  a  womanly  woman  she  might  be  !  That 
fair,  grand-featured  face  of  hers,  what  might  it  not  como 
to  hold  and  be  beautiful  with,  if  it  could  once  let  go  its 
little  airs  and  consciousnesses  that  cramped  it  ?  It  had  a 
finer  look  in  it  now  than  she  thought  of,  as  she  waited 
with  real  ingenuous  solicitude,  his  answer. 

He  gave  it  gravely  and  conscientiously. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  any  business  to  advise.  But  I 
don't  exactly  believe  in  that  sort  of  thing.  It  isn't  a  gen 
uine  trade." 

"  Why  not  ?    People  like  it.  Virginia  Levering  makes 


TWO   TEIPS  IN   THE  TEAIN.  35 

fifty  dollars   a  night,  even  when  they   have   to   hire   a 
hall." 

u  And  how  often  do  the  nights  come  ?  And  how  long 
is  it  likely  to  last?" 

"  Long  enough  to  make  money,  I  guess,"  said  Marion, 
laughing.  She  was  a  little  reassured  at  S underline's  tol 
eration  of  the  idea,  even,  so  far  as  to  make  calm  and  defi 
nite  objection.  "And  it's  pleasant  at  the  time.  I  like 
going  about.  I  like  to  please  people.  I  like  to  be  some 
body.  It  may  be  silly,  but  that's  the  truth." 

"  And  what  would  you  be  afterward,  when  you  had 
had  your  day  ?  For  none  of  these  days  last  long,  espe 
cially  with  women." 

"  O !  "  exclaimed  Marion,  with  remonstrative  aston 
ishment.  "  Mrs.  Kemble  !  Charlotte  Cushman  !  " 

"  It  won't  do  to  quote  them,  I'm  afraid.  I  suppose 
you'd  hardly  expect  to  come  up  into  that  row  ?  "  said 
Sunderline,  smiling. 

"  They  began,  some  time,"  returned  Marion. 

"  Yes  ;  but  for  one  thing,  it  wasn't,  a  time  when  every 
body  else  was  beginning.  Shall  I  tell  you  plainly  how  it 
seems  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would." 

They  had  walked  slowly  for  the  last  three  or  four 
minutes,  till  they  had  come  to  the  beginning  of  the  paling 
in  which,  a  little  further  on,  was  the  white  gate.  They 
paused  here  ;  Frank  Sunderline  rested  his  box  of  tools  on 
the  low  wall  that  ran  up  and  joined  the  fence,  and  Marion 
turned  and  stood  with  her  face  toward  him  in  the  western 
light,  and  her  little  pink-lined  linen  sunshade  up  between 
her  and  the  low  sun,  —  between  her  and  the  roadway  also, 
down  which  might  come  any  curious  passers-by. 

"It  seems    to    me,"    said    Frank    Sunderline,    "that 


86  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

women  are  getting  on  to  the  platforms  nowadays,  not  so 
much  for  any  real  errand  they  have  there,  as  just  for  the 
sake  of  saying,  I'm  here  !     I  think  it  is  very  much   the 
4  to  be  seen  of  men'  motive,  —  the  poorest  part  of  wom 
en's  characters,  —  that  plays  itself   out  in  this  way,  as 
it  always  has  done  in  dancing  and  dressing  and  acting, 
and  what  not.     It  isn't  that  a  woman  might  not  be  on  a 
platform,  if  she  were  called  there,  as  well  as  anywhere 
else.     There  never  was  a  woman   came  out  before  the 
world  in  any  grand,  true  way,  that  she  wasn't  all  the 
more  honored  and  attended  to  because  she  was  a  woman. 
There  are  some  things  too  good  to  be  made  common  ; 
things  that  ought  to  be  saved  up  for  a  special  time,  so  that 
they  may  be  special.     If  it  falls  to  a   woman   to   be  a 
Queen,  and  to  open  and  dismiss  her  Parliament,  nobody  in 
all  the  kingdom  but  thinks  the  words  come  nobler  and 
sweeter  for  a  woman's  saying  them.     But  that's  because 
she  is  put  there,  not  because  she  climbs  up  some  other 
way.     If  a  woman  honestly  has  something  that  she  must 
say  _  some  great  word  from  the  Lord,  or  for  her  coun 
try,  or  for  suffering  people,  —  then  let  her  say  it ;  and 
every  real  woman's  husband,  and  every  real  mother's  son, 
will  hear  her  with  his  very  heart.     Or  if  even  she  has 
some  sure  wonderful  gift,  —  if  she  can  sing,  or  read,  or 
recite ;  if  she  can  stir  people  up  to  good  and  beautiful 
things  as  one  in  a  thousand,  that's  her  errand ;  let  her  do 
it,  and  let  the  thousand  come  to  hear.     But  she  ought 
to  be  certain  sure,  or  else  she's  leaving  her  real  errand  be 
hind.    Don't  let  everybody,  just  because  the  door  is  open, 
rush  in  without  any  sort  of  a  pass  or  countersign.  That's 
what   it's  coming   to.     A  sham   trade,  like  hundreds  of 
other  sham  trades  ;  and  the  shammer  and  the  shameful- 
ler,  because  women  demean  themselves  to  it.     I  can't 


TWO   TRIPS  IN  THE  TRAIN. 

bear  to  see  women  changing  so,  away  from  themselves. 
We  shan't  get  them  back  again,  this  generation.  The 
homes  are  going.  Young  men  of  these  days  have  got  to 
lose  their  wives — that  they  ought  to  have  —  and  their 
homes  that  they  looked  forward  to,  such  as  their  mothers 
made.  It's  hard  upon  them  ;  it  takes  away  their  hopes 
and  their  motives  ;  it's  as  bad  for  them  as  for  the  women. 
It's  the  abomination  of  desolation  standing  in  the  holy 
place.  There's  no  end  to  the  mischief  ;  but  it  works  first 
and  worst  with  exactly  girls  of  your  class  —  our  class, 
Marion.  Girls  that  are  all  upset  out  of  their  natural 
places,  and  not  really  fit  for  the  new  things  they  under 
take  to  do.  As  I  said,  —  how  long  will  it  last  ?  How 
long  will  the  Mr.  Hamilton  Leverings  put  you  forward 
and  find  chances  for  you  ?  Just  as  long  as  you  are  young 
and  pretty  and  new.  And  then,  what  have  you  got  left  ? 
What  are  you  going  to  turn  round  to  ?  " 

Sunderline  stopped.  The  color  flushed  up  in  his  face. 
He  had  spoken  faster  and  freer  and  longer  than  he  had 
thought  of  ;  the  feeling  that  he  had  in  him  about  this 
thing,  and  the  interest  he  had  in  Marion  Kent,  all  rushed 
to  words  together,  so  that  he  almost  forgot  that  Marion 
Kent  in  bodily  presence  stood  listening  before  him,  he 
was  dealing  so  much  more  with  his  abstract  thought  of 
her,  and  his  notion  of  real  womanhood. 

But  Marion  Kent  did  stand  there.  She  flushed  up  too, 
when  he  said,  "  We  are  going  to  lose  our  wives  by  it." 
What  did  he  mean  ?  Would  he  lose  anything,  if  she 
took  to  this  that  she  thought  of,  and  went  abroad  into  the 
world,  and  before  it  ?  Why  didn't  he  say  so,  then  ? 
Why  didn't  he  give  her  the  choice  ? 

But  what  difference  need  it  make,  in  any  such  way  ? 
Why  shouldn't  a  girl  be  doing  her  part  beforehand,  as  a 


38  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

man  does  ?  He  was  getting  ahead  in  his  trade,  and  sav 
ing  money.  By  and  by,  he  would  think  he  had  got 
enough,  and  then  he  would  ask  somebody  to  be  his  wife. 

What  should  the  wife  have  been  doing  in  the  mean  time 

before  she  was  sure  that  she   should  ever  be  a   wife  ? 
Why  shouldn't  she  look  out  for  herself  ? 
She  said  so. 

"  I  don't  see  exactly,  Mr.  Sunderline." 
She  called  him  "  Mr.  Sunderline,"  though  she  remem 
bered  very  well  that  in  the  earnestness  of  his  talk  he  had 
called  her  "  Marion."  They  had  grown  to  that  time  of 
life  when  a  young  man  and  a  girl  who  have  known  each 
other  always,  are  apt  to  drop  the  familiar  Christian  name, 
and  not  take  up  anything  else  if  they  can  help  it.  The 
time  when  they  carefully  secure  attention  before  they 
speak,  and  then  use  nothing  but  pronouns  in  addressing 
each  other.  A  girl,  however,  says  "  Mr."  a  little 
more  easily  than  a  man  says  "  Miss."  The  girl  has  al 
ways  been  "  Miss  "  to  the  world  in  general ;  the  boy 
grows  up  to  his  manly  title,  and  it  is  not  a  special  per 
sonal  matter  to  give  it  to  him.-  There  is  something,  even, 
in  the  use  of  it,  which  delicately  marks  an  attitude  —  not 
of  distance,  but  of  a  certain  maidenly  and  bewitching 
consciousness  —  in  a  girl  friend  grown  into  a  woman,  and 
recognizing  the  man. 

"  I  don't  see,  exactly,  Mr.  Sunderline,"  said  Marion. 
"  Why  shouldn't  a  girl  do  the  best  she  can  ?  Will  she 
be  any  the  worse  for  it  afterwards  ?  Why  should  the 
wives  be  all  spoilt,  any  more  than  the  husbands  ?  " 

"  Real  work  wouldn't  spoil;  only  the  sham  and  the 
show.  Don't  do  it,  Marion.  I  wouldn't  want  my  sister 
to,  if  I  had  one  —  there  !  " 

He  had  not  meant  so  directly  to  answer  her  question. 
He  came  to  this  end  involuntarily. 


TWO   TRIPS   IK    THE   TRAIN.  39 

Marion  felt  herself  tingle  from  head  to  foot  with  the 
suddenness  of  the  negative  that  she  had  asked  for  and 
brought  down  upon  herself.  Now,  if  she  acted,  she  must 
act  in  defiance  of  it.  She  felt  angrily  ashamed,  too,  of 
the  position  in  which  his  words  put  her  ;  that  of  a  girl 
seeking  notoriety,  for  mere  show's  sake  ;  desiring  to  do  a 
sham  work  ;  to  make  a  pretension  without  a  claim.  How 
did  he  know  what  her  claim  might  be  ?  She  had  a  mind 
to  find  out,  and  let  him  see.  Sister  !  what  did  he  say 
that  for  ?  He  needn't  have  talked  about  sisters,  or  wives 
either,  after  that  fashion.  Spoilt !  Well,  what  should 
she  save  herself  for  ?  It  was  pretty  clear  it  wouldn't  be 
much  to  him. 

The  color  died  down,  and  she  grew  quiet,  or  thought 
she  did.  She  meant  to  be  very  quiet ;  very  indifferent 
and  calm.  She  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  there  was  a  sort 
of  still  flash  in  them.  Now  that  her  cheek  was  cool, 
they  burned,  —  burned  their  own  color,  blue-gray  that 
deepened  almost  into  black. 

"  I've  a  good  will,  however,"  she  said  slowly,  "  to  find 
out  what  I  can  do.  Perhaps  neither  you  nor  I  know  that, 
yet.  Then  I  can  make  up  my  mind.  I  rather  believe  in 
taking  what  comes.  A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in 
the  bush.  Very  likely  nobody  will  ever  care  particularly 
whether  I'm  spoilt  or  not.  And  if  I'm  spoilt  for  one 
thing,  I  may  be  made  for  another.  There  have  got  to  be 
all  sorts  of  people  in  the  world,  you  know." 

She  was  very  handsome,  with  her  white  chin  up, 
haughtily  ;  her  nose  making  its  straight,  high  line,  as  she 
turned  her  face  half  away  ;  her  eyes  so  dark  with  will, 
and  the  curve  of  hurt  pride  in  her  lips  that  yet  might 
turn  easily  to  a  quiver.  She  spoke  low  and  smooth  ;  her 
words  dropped  cool  and  clear,  without  a  tone  of  temper 


40  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

in  them  ;  if  there  was  passionate  force,  it  was  from  a  fire 
far  down. 

If  she  could  do  so  upon  a  stage  ;  if  she  could  look 
like  that  saying  other  people's  words  —  words  out  of  a 
book  :  if  she  could  feel  into  the  passions  of  a  world,  and 
interpret  them ;  then,  indeed  !  But  Marion  Kent  had 
never  entered  into  heights  and  depths  of  thought  and  of 
experience ;  she  knew  only  Marion  Kent's  little  passions 
as  they  came  to  her,  and  spoke  themselves  in  homely, 
unchoice  words.  Mrs.  Kemble  or  Charlotte  Cushman 
might  have  made  a  study  from  that  face  that  would  have 
served  for  a  Queen  Katharine  ;  but  Queen  Katharine's 
grand  utterances  would  never  have  thrilled  Marion  Kent 
to  wear  the  look  as  she  wore  it  now,  piqued  by  the  plain- 
speaking  —  and  the  not  speaking  —  of  the  young  village 
carpenter. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  feel  hurt  with  me  ;  I've  only  been 
honest,  and  I  meant  to  be  kind,"  said  Frank  Sunderline. 

"  No,  indeed ;  I  dare  say  you  did,"  returned  Marion. 
"  After  all,  everybody  has  got  to  judge  for  themselves. 
I  was  silly  to  think  anybody  could  help  me." 

"  Perhaps  you  could  help  yourself  better,"  said  the 
young  man,  loth  to  leave  her  in  this  mood,  uif  yon 
thought  how  you  would  judge  for  somebody  you  cared 
for.  If  your  own  little  sister  "  — 

Now  the  quiver  came.  Now  all  the  hurt,  and  pique, 
and  shame,  and  jealous  disappointment  rushed  together 
to  mingle  and  disguise  themselves  with  a  swell  and  pang 
that  always  rose  in  her  at  the  name  of  her  little  dead  sis 
ter,  —  dead  six  years  ago,  when  she  was  nine  and  Marion 
twelve. 

The  tears  sprang  to  the  darkened  eyes,  and  quenched 
down  their  burning ;  the  color  swept  into  her  face,  like 


TWO   TfclPS  IN   THE   TRAIN.  41 

the  color  after  a  blow ;  the  lips  gave  way  ;  and  with 
words  that  came  like  a  cry  she  exclaimed  passionately,  — 

"  Don't  speak  of  little  Sue  !  I  can't  bear  it !  I  never 
could !  I  don't  know  what  I  say  now.  Good-night,  good- 
by." 

And  she  left  him  there  with  his  box  upon  the  wall ; 
turned  and  hurried  along  the  path,  and  in  through  the 
little  white  gate. 


42  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

NINETY-NINE  FAHBENHEIT. 

OODNEY  SHERRETT  got  up  from  the  breakfast 
"  table,  where  he  had  eaten  half  an  hour  later  than 
the  rest  of  the  family,  threw  aside  the  newspaper  that 
had  served  to  accompany  his  meal  as  it  had  previously 
done  his  father's,  and  walked  out  through  the  conserva 
tory  upon  the  slope  of  lawn  scattered  over  with  bright 
little  flower-beds,  among  which  his  sister,  with'  a  large 
shade  hat  on,  and  a  pair  of  garden  scissors  and  a  basket 
in  her  hands,  was  moving  about,  cutting  carnations  and 
tea-roses  and  bouvardia  and  geranium  leaves  and  bits  of 
vines,  for  her  baskets  and  shells  and  vases. 

"  I  say,  Amy,  why  haven't  you  been  over  to  the 
Argenters'  this  long  while  ?  Why  don't  you  get  Sylvie 
here  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  did  go,  Rod  !  Just  when  you  asked  me  to. 
And  she  has  been  here  ;  she  called  three  weeks  ago." 

"  O,  poh  !  After  the  spill !  Of  course  you  did.  Just 
called  ;  and  she  called.  Why  need  that  be  the  end  of  it  ? 
Why  don't  yota  make  much  of  her  ?  I  can  tell  you  she's 
a  girl  you  might  make  much  of.  She  behaved  like  a 
lady,  that  day ;  and  a  woman,  —  that's  more.  .  She  was 
neither  scared  nor  mad  ;  didn't  scream,  nor  pout ;  nor 
even  stand  round  to  keep  up  the  excitement.  She  was 
just  cool  and  quiet,  and  took  herself  off  properly.  I 
don't  know  another  girl  that  would  have  done  so.  She 
saved  me  out  of  the  scrape  as  far  as  she  was  concerned  ; 


NINETY-NINE  FAHRENHEIT.  48 

she  might  have  made  it  ten  times  the  muss  it  was.  I'd 
rather  run  down  a  whole  flock  of  sheep  than  graze  the 
varnish  off  a  woman's  wheel,  as  a  general  principle. 
There's  real  backbone  to  Sylvie  Argenter,  besides  her 
prettiness.  My  father  would  like  her,  I  know.  Why 
don't  you  bring  her  here ;  get  intimate  with  her  ?  I 
can't  do  it,  —  too  fierce,  you  know." 

Amy  Sherrett  laughed. 

"  What  a  nice  little  cat's-paw  a  sister  makes  !  Doesn't 
she,  Rod  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  if  cats  don't  like  chestnuts  too,  sometimes," 
said  Rod  ;  and  then  he  whistled. 

"  What  a  worry  you  are,  Rod  ! "  said  Amy,  with  a 
little  frown  that  some  pretty  girls  have  a  way  of  making  ; 
half  real  and  half  got  up  for  the  occasion  ;  a  very  becom 
ing  little  pucker  of  a  frown  that  seems  to  put  a  lovely 
sort  of  perplexed  trouble  into  the  beautiful  eyes,  only  to 
show  how  much  too  sweet  and  tender  they  really  are 
ever  to  be  permitted  a  perplexity,  and  what  a  touching 
and  appealing  thing  it  would  be  if  a  trouble  should  get 
into  them  in  any  earnest.  "  In  term  time  I'm  always 
wishing  it  well  over,  for  fear  of  what  dreadful  thing  you 
may  do  next ;  and  when  it  is  vacation,  it  gets  to  be  so 
much  worse,  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  that  I'm 
longing  for  you  to  be  safe  back  in  Cambridge." 

"  Coming  home  Saturday  nights  ?  Well,  3^011  do  get 
about  the  best  of  me  so.  And  we  fellows  get  just  the 
right  little  sprinkle  of  family  influence,  too.  It  loses  its 
effect  when  you  have  it  all  the  time.  That's  what  I  tell 
Truesdaile,  when  he  goes  on  about  home,  and  what  a 
thing  it  is  to  have  a  sister,  —  he  doesn't  exactly  say  my 
sister  ;  I  suppose  he  believes  in  the  tenth  commandment. 
By  the  way,  he's  knocking  round  at  the  seashore  some- 


44  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

where  using  up  the  time.  I've  half  a  mind  to  hunt  him 
up  and  get  him  back  here  for  the  last  week  or  so.  I 
think  he'd  like  it." 

"  Nonsense,  Rod  !  You  can't.  When  Aunt  Euphrasia's 
away." 

"  She  would  come  back,  if  you  asked  her ;  wouldn't 
she  ?  I  think  it  would  be  a  charity.  Put  it  to  her  as  an 
opportunity.  She'd  drop  anything  she  might  be  about 
for  an  opportunity.  I  wonder  if  she  ever  goes  back  upon 
her  tracks  and  finishes  up  ?  She's  something  like  a  mow 
ing  machine  :  a  grand  good  thing,  but  needs  a  scythe  to 
follow  round  and  pick  out  the  stumps  .and  corners." 

Amy  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  believe  I'll  ask  her,  Rod.  She's  perfectly 
happy  up  there  in  New  Ipswich,  painting  wild  flowers 
and  pressing  ferns,  and  swinging  those  five  children  in 
her  hammock,  and  carrying  them  all  to  drive  in  her  pony- 
wagon,  and  getting  up  hampers  of  fish  and  baskets  of 
fruit,  and  beef  sirloins  by  express,  and  feeding  them  all 
up,  and  paying  poor  dear  cousin  Nan  ten  dollars  a  week 
for  letting  her  do  it.  I  guess  it's  my  opportunity  to  get 
along  here  without  her,  and  let  her  stay." 

"Incorruptible!  Well — you're  a  good  girl,  Amy.  I 
must  come  down  to  plain  soft-sawder.  Put  some  of  those 
things  together  prettily,  as  you  know  how,  and  drive  over 
and  take  them  to  Sylvie  Argenter  this  afternoon,  will 
you?" 

"  Fish  and  fruit  and  sirloins !  " 

"  Amy,  you're  an  aggravator  ! ' 

"  No.  I'm  only  grammatical.  I'm  sure  those  were  the 
antecedents." 

"  If  you  don't,  I  will." 

"If  you  will,  I  will  too,  Rod!  Drive  me  over,  that's 
a  good  boy,  and  I'll  go." 


NINETY-NINE   FAHRENHEIT.  45 

Amy  seized  with  delicate  craft  her  opportunity  for 
getting  her  brother  off  from  one  of  his  solitary,  roaming 
expeditions  with  Red  Squirrel  that  ended  too  often  in  not 
being  solitary,  but  in  bringing  him  into  company  with 
people  who  knew  about  horses,  or  had  them  to  show,  and 
were  planning  for  races,  and  who  were  likely  to  lead 
Rodney,  in  spite  of  his  innate  gentlemanhood,  into  more 
of  mere  jockeyism  than  either  she  or  her  father  liked. 

"But  the  flowers,  I  fancy,  Rod,  would  be  coals  to 
Newcastle.  They  have  a  greenhouse." 

"  And  have  never  had  a  decent  man  to  manage  it.  It 
jame  to  nothing  this  year.  She  told  me  so.  You  see  it 
just  is  a  literal  new  castle.  Mr.  Argenter  is  too  busy  in 
town  to  look  after  it ;  and  they've  been  cheated  and  dis 
appointed  right  and  left.  They're  not  to  blame  for  being 
Dew,"  he  continued,  seeing  the  least  possible  little  lifted 
look  about  Amy's  delicate  lips  and  eyebrows.  "  I  hate 
that  kind  of  shoddiness." 

"  4  Don't  fire  —  I'll  come  down,'  "  said  Amy,  laughing. 
"  And  I  don't  think  I  ever  get  very  far  up,  beyond  what's 
safe  and  reasonable  for  a  "  — 

"  Nice,  well-bred  little  coon,"  said  Rodney,  patting  her 
on  the  shoulder,  in  an  exuberance  of  gracious  approval 
and  beamingly  serene  content.  "  I'll  take  you  in  my  gig 
with  Red  Squirrel,"  he  added,  by  way  of  reward  of 
merit. 

Now  Amy  in  her  secret  heart  was  mortally  afraid  of 
Red  Squirrel,  but  she  would  have  been  upset  ten  times 
over  —  by  Rodney  —  sooner  than  say  so. 

When  Sylvie  Argenter,  that  afternoon,  from  her  win 
dow  with  its  cool,  deep  awning,  saw  Rodney  Sherrett 
and  his  sister  coming  up  the  drive,  there  flashed  across 
her,  by~a  curious  association,  the  thought  of  the  young 


46  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

carpenter  who  liad  gone  up  the  village  street  and  bowed 
to  Ray  Ingraham,  the  baker's  daughter.  *- 

After  all,  the  gentleman's  "  place,"  apart  and  retired, 

and  the  long  "approach,"  were  not  so  very  much  worse, 

when  the  "people  in  the  carriages," — the  right  people, 

—  really  came  ;  and  "  on  purpose  "  was  not  such  a  bad 

qualification  of  the  coming,  either. 

And  when  Mrs.  Argenter,  hearing  the  bell,  and  the 
movement  of  an  arrival,  and  not  being  herself  summoned 
in  consequence,  rung  in  her  own  room  for  the  maid,  and 
received  for  answer  to  her  inquiry,  — "  Miss  Sherrett  and 
young  Mr.  Sherrett,  ma'am,  to  see  Miss  Sylvie," —  she 
turned  back  to  her  volume  of  "  London  Society,"  much 
and  mixedly  reconciled  in  her  thoughts  to  two  things 
that  occurred  to  her  at  once,  —  one  of  them  adding  itself' 
to  the  other  as  manifestly  in  the  same  remarkable  order  of 
providence ;  "  that  tip-out "  from  the  basket-photon,  and 
the  new  white  frill-trimmed  polonaise  that  Miss  Sylvie 
would  put  on,  so  needlessly,  this  afternoon,  in  spite  of 
her  remonstrance  that  the  laundress  had  just  left  without 
warning,  and  there  was  no  knowing  when  they  should 
ever  find  another. 

"  There  is  certainly  a  fate  in  these  matters,"  she  said 
to  herself,  complacently.  "  One  thing  always  follows 
another." 

Mrs.  Argenter  was  apt  to  make  to  herself  a  "House 
that  Jack  built  "  out  of  her  providences.  She  had  always 
a  little  string  of  them  to  rehearse  in  every  history  ;  from 
the  malt  that  lay  in  the  house,  and  the  rat  that  ate  the 
malt,  up  to  the  priest  all  shaven  and  shorn,  that  married 
the  man  that  kissed  the  maid  —  and  so  on,  all  the  way 
back  again.  She  counted  them  up  as  they  went  along. 
"  There  was  the  overturn,"  she  would  say,  by  and  by ; 


NINETY-NINE   FAHRENHEIT.  47 

"  and  there  was  Rodney  Sherrett's  call  because  of  that, 
and  then  his  sister's  because  no  doubt  he  asked  her,  and 
then  their  both  coming  together ;  and  there  was  your 
pretty  white  polonaise,  you  know,  the  day  they  did  come  ; 
and  there  was  " —  Mrs.  Argenter  has  not  counted  up  to 
that  yet.  Perhaps  it  may  be  a  long  while  before  she  will 
so  readily  count  it  in. 

It  had  turned  out  a  hot  day  ;  one  of  those  days  in  the 
nineties,  when  if  you  once  hear  from  the  thermometer,  or 
in  any  way  have  the  fact  forcibly  brought  home  to  you, 
you  relinquish  all  idea  of  exertion  yourself,  and  look  upon 
the  world  outside  as  one  great  pause,  out  of  which  no 
movement  can  possibly  come,  unless  there  first  come  the 
beneficence  of  an  east  wind,  which  the  dwellers  on  Massa 
chusetts  Bay  have  always  for  a  reserve  of  hope.  Yet  it 
may  quite  well  occur  to  here  and  there  an  individual  with 
a  resolute  purpose  in  the  day,  to  actually  live  through  it 
and  pursue  the  intended  plan,  without  realizing  the  extra 
degrees-  of  Fahrenheit  at  all,  and  to  learn  with  surprise 
at  set  of  sun  when  the  deeds  are  done,  of  the  excelsior 
performances  of  the  mercury.  With  what  secret  amaze 
ment  and  dismay  is  one's  valor  recognized,  however,  when 
it  has  led  one  to  render  one's  self  at  four  in  the  afternoon 
on  such  a  day,  near  one's  friend  who  has  been  vividly 
conscious  of  the  torrid  atmosphere  !  Did  you  ever  make 
or  receive  such  an  afternoon  call  ? 

Mrs.  Argenter,  comfortable  in  her  thin  wrapper,  read 
ing  her  thin  romance,  did  not  trouble  herself  to  be  aston 
ished.  "  They  were  young  people  ;  young  people  could 
do  anything,"  she  dimly  thought ;  and  putting  the  white 
polonaise  into  the  structure  of  the  House  that  Jack  built, 
she  interrupted  herself  no  farther  than  presently  to  ring 
her  bell  again,  and  tell  the  maid  on  no  account  to  admit 


48  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

any  one  to  see  herself,  and  to  be  sure  that  there  were 
plenty  of  raspberries  brought  in  for  tea. 

Meanwhile,  away  in  the  cities,  the  thermometer  had 
climbed  and  climbed.  Pavements  were  blistering  hot ; 
watering  carts  went  lumbering  round  only  to  send  up  a 
reek  of  noisome  mist  and  to  leave  the  streets  whitening 
again  a  few  yards  behind  them.  Blinds  were  closed  up 
and  down  the  avenues,  where  people  had  either  long  left 
their  houses  vacant  or  were  sheltering  themselves  in 
depths  of  gloom  in  the  tomb-like  coolness  of  their  double 
walls.  Builders'  trowels  and  hammers  had  a  sound  that 
made  you  think  of  sparks  struck  out,  as  if  the  world  were 
a  great  forge  and  all  its  matter  at  a  white  heat.  Down 
in  the  poor,  crowded  places,  where  the  gutters  fumed 
with  filth,  and  doors  stood  open  upon  horrible  passages 
and  staircases,  little  children,  barefooted,  with  one  mis 
erable  garment  on,  sat  on  grimy  stone  steps,  or  played 
wretchedly  about  the  sidewalks,  impeding  the  passers  of 
a  better  class  who  hastened  with  bated  breath,  amidst  the 
fever  -breeding  nuisances,  along  to  railway  stations  whence 
they  would  escape  to  country  and  sea-side  homes. 

On  the  wharves  was  the  smell  of  tarred  seams  and  cord 
age, —  sweltering  in  the  sun;  in  the  counting-rooms  the 
clerks  could  barely  keep  the  drops  of  moisture  from  their 
faces  from  falling  down  to  blot  their  toilsome  lines  of  fig 
ures  on  the  faultless  pages  of  the  ledgers  ;  on  the  Com 
mon,  common  men  surreptitiously  stretched  themselves 
in  shady  corners  on  the  grass,  regardless  of  the  police, 
until  they  should  be  found  and  ordered  off ;  little  babies 
in  second-rate  boarding-houses,  where  their  fathers  and 
mothers  had  to  stay  for  cheapness  the  summer  through, 
wailed  the  helpless,  pitiful  cry  of  a  slowly  murdered  in 
fancy  ;  and  out  on  the  blazing  thoroughfares  where  busi- 


NINETY-NINE  FAHRENHEIT.  49 

ness  had  to  be  busy,  strong  men  were  dropping  down, 
and  reporters  were  hovering  about  upon  the  skirts  of  lit 
tle  crowds,  gathering  their  items ;  making  their  hay  while 
this  terrible  sun  was  shining. 

What  did  Mrs.  Argenter  care  ? 

The  sun  would  be  going  down  now,  in  a  little  while ; 
then  the  cool  piazzas,  and  the  raspberries  and  cream,  and 
the  iced  milk,  —  yellow  Alderney  milk,  —  would  be  de 
lightful.  Once  or  twice  she  did  think  of  "  Argie  "  in  New 
York,  —  gone  thither  on  some  perplexing,  hurried  errand, 
which  he  had  only  half  told  her,  and  the  half  telling  of 
which  she  had  only  half  heard, — and  remembered 
that  the  heat  must  be  "  awful  "  there.  But  to-night  he 
would  be  on  board  the  splendid  Sound  steamer,  coming 
home  ;  and  to-morrow,  if  this  lasted,  she  would  surely 
speak  to  him  about  getting  off  for  a  while  to  Rye,  or 
Mount  Desert. 

She  came  by  and  by  to  the  end  of  her  volume,  and 
found  that  the  serial  she  was  following  ran  on  into  the 
next. 

"  Provoking,"  she  said,  tossing  it  down  to  the  end  of 
the  sofa,  "  and  neither  Sylvie  nor  I  can  get  into  town  in 
this  heat,  and  Argie  thinks  it  such  a  bother  to  be  asked 
to  go  to  Loring's." 

Just  then  Sylvie's  step  came  lightly  up  the  stairs.  She 
looked  into  the  large  cool  dressing-room  where  her  mother 
lay. 

"  I'm  only  up  for  my  "  Confession  Album,"  she  said. 
"  But  O  Mater  Amata  !  if  you'd  just  come  down  and 
help  me  through !  I  know  they'd  stay  to  tea  and  go  home 
in  the  cool,  if  I  only  knew  how  to  ask  them  ;  but  if  I  said 
a  word  I  should  be  sure  to  drive  them  away.  You  can  do 
it ;  and  they  would  if  you  came.  Please  do  !  " 


50  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  You  silly  child !  Won't  you  ever  be  able  to  do 
anything  yourself?  When  you  were  a  little  girl,  you 
wouldn't  carry  a  message,  because  you  could  get  into  a 
house,  but  didn't  know  how  to  get  out !  And  now  you 
are  grown  up,  you  can  get  people  into  the  house  to  see 
you,  but  you  don't  know  how  to  ask  them  to  stay  to  tea ! 
What  s hall  I  ever  do  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I'm  awfully  afraid  of  —  nice  girls  !  " 

"  Sylvie,  I'm  ashamed  of  you !  As  if  you  had  any 
other  kind  of  acquaintance,  or  weren't  as  nice  as  any  of 
them !  I  wouldn't  suggest  it,  even  to  myself,  if  I  were 
you." 

"  And  I  don't,"  said  Sylvie  boldly  —  "  when  I'm  ly 
myself.  But  there's  a  kind  of  a  little  misgiving  some 
how,  when  they  come,  or  when  I  go,  as  if  —  well,  as  if 
there  might  be  something  to  it  that  I  didn't  know  of,  or 
behind  it  that  I  hadn't,  got;  or  else,  that  there  were 
things  that  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  I  know 
too  much  of.  A  kind  of  a — Poggowantimoc  feeling, 
mother  !  Amy  Sherrett  is  so  fearfully  refined,  —  all  the 
•way  through  !  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  she  ever  had  any 
common  things  to  say  or  do.  Don't  you  think  it  takes 
common  things  to  get  people  really  near  to  each  other  ? 
It  doesn't  seem  to  me  I  could  ever  be  intimate  —  or  very 
easy  —  with  Amy  Sherrett." 

"  You  seemed  to  get  on  well  enough  with  her  brother, 
the  other  day." 

"  Boys  aren't  half  so  bad.  There  isn't  any  such  wax 
work  about  boys.  Besides,"  —  and  Sylvie  laughed  a  low, 
gay  little  laugh,  —  we  got  spilt  out  together,  you  know." 
"  Well,  don't  stand  talking.  You  mustn't  keep  them 
waiting.  It  isn't  time  to  speak  about  tea,  yet.  Look 
over  the  album,  and  get  at  some  music.  Keep  them, 


NINETY-NINE   FAHRENHEIT.  51 

•without  saying  anything  about  it.  When  people  think 
every  minute  they  are  just  going,  is  just  when  they  are 
having  the  very  pleasantest  time." 

"  I  know  it.  But  you'll  come,  won't  you,  and  make  it 
all  right  ?  Put  on  something  loose  and  cool ;  that  lovely 
black  lace  jacket  with  the  violet  lining,  and  your  gray 
silk  skirt.  It  won't  take  you  a  minute.  Your  hair's  per 
fectly  sweet  noAV."  And  Sylvie  hurried  away. 

Mrs.  Argenter  came  down,  twenty  minutes  afterwards, 
into  the  great  summer  drawing-room,  where  the  finest 
Indian  matting,  and  dark,  rich  Persian  rugs,  and  inner 
window  blinds  folded  behind  lace  curtains  that  fell  like 
the  foam  of  waterfalls  from  ceiling  to  floor,  made  a  pleas 
antness  out  of  the  very  heat  against  which  such  furnish 
ings  might  be  provided. 

In  her  silken  skirt  of  silver  gray,  and  the  llama  sack, 
violet  lined,  to  need  no  tight  corsage  beneath,  her  fair 
wrists  and  arms  showing  white  and  cool  in  the  wide 
drapery  sleeves,  she  looked  a  very  lovely  lady.  Sylvie 
was  proud  of  her  handsome,  elegant  mother.  She  grew 
a  great  deal  braver  always  when  Mrs.  Argenter  came  in. 
She  borrowed  a  second  consciousness  from  her  in  which 
she  took  courage,  assured  that  all  was  right.  Chairs  and 
rugs  gave  her  no  such  confidence,  though  she  knew  that 
the  Sherretts  themselves  had  no  more  faultless  surround 
ings.  Anybody  could  have  rugs  and  chairs.  It  was  the 
presence  among  them  that  was  wanted  ;  and  poor  Sylvie 
seemed  to  herself  to  melt  quite  away,  as  it  were,  before 
such  a  girl  as  Amy  Sherrett,  and  not  to  be  able  to  be  a 
presence  at  all. 

It  was  all  right  now,  as  Sylvie  had  said.  They  could 
not  leave  immediately  upon  Mrs.  Argenter  joining  them  ; 
and  her  joining  them  was  of  itself  a  welcome  and  an  in- 


52  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

vitation.  So  Sylvie  called  upon  her  mother  to  admire 
the  lovely  basket,  wherein  on  damp,  tender,  bright  green 
moss,  clustered  the  most  exquisite  blossoms,  and  the  most 
delicate  trails  of  stem  and  leafage  wandered  and  started 
up  lightly,  and  at  last  fell  like  a  veil  over  rim  and  han 
dle,  and  dropped  below  the  edge  of  the  tiny  round  table 
with  Siena  marble  top,  on  which  Sylvie  had  placed  it 
between  the  curtains  of  the  recess  that  led  through  to 
their  conservatory,  which  had  been  "  a  failure  tMs  year." 

4 '  I  would  not  tell  you  of  it,  Amata.  I  wanted  you 
just  to  see  it,"  she  said.  And  Mrs.  Argenter  admired 
and  thanked,  and  then  lamented  their  own  ill-success  in 
greenhouse  and  garden  culture. 

"  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  look  after  it  much  myself, 
and  Mr.  Argenter  never  has  time,"  she  said  ;  "  and  our 
first  man  was  a  tipsifier,  and  the  last  was  a  rogue.  He 
sold  off  quantities  of  the  best  young  plants,  we  found, 
just  before  they  came  to  show  for  anything." 

"  Our  man  has  been  with  us  for  eight  years,"  said 
Rodney  Sherrett.  "  I  dare  say  he  could  recommend  some 
one  to  you,  if  you  liked  ;  and  he  wouldn't  .send  anybody 
that  wasn't  right.  Shall  I  ask  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Argenter  would  be  delighted  if  he  would  ;  and 
then  Mr.  Sherrett  must  come  into,  the  conservatory, 
where  a  few  ragged  palm  ferns,  their  great  leaves  brown 
ing  and  crumbling  at  the  edges,  —  some  daphnes  strug 
gling  into  green  tips,  having  lost  their  last  growth  of 
leaf  and  dropped  all  their  flower  buds,  and  several  calmly 
enduring  orange  and  lemon  trees,  gave  all  the  suggestion 
of  foliage  that  the  place  afforded,  and  served,  much 
like  the  painter's  inscription  at  the  bottom  of  his  canvas, 
merely  to  signify  by  the  scant  glimpse  through  the  draw 
ing-room  draperies, —  "  This  is  a  conservatory." 


NINETY-NINE  FAHRENHEIT.  53 

Mrs.  Argenter  asked  Rodney  something  about  the  best 
arrangement  for  the  open  beds,  and  wanted  to  know  what 
would  be  surest  to  do  well  for  the  rockery,  and  whether 
it  was  in  a  good  part  of  the  house,  —  sufficiently  shaded  ? 
Meanwhile,  Amy  and  Sylvie  were  turning  over  music, 
and  when  they  all  gathered  together  again  the  call  had 
extended  to  a  two  hours'  visit. 

"  It  is  really  unpardonable,"  Amy  Sherrett  was  saying, 
and  picking  up  the  pretty  little  hat  which  she  had  thrown 
down  upon  a  chair,  —  "  it  had  been  so  warm  to  wear 
anything  a  minute  that  one  need  not."  And  then  Mrs. 
Argenter  said  so  easily  and  of  course,  that  they  "  cer 
tainly  would  not  think  of  going  now,  when  it  would  soon 
be  really  pleasant  for  a  twilight  drive ;  tea  would  be  ready 
early,  for  she  and  Sylvie  were  alone,  and  all  they  had 
cared  for  to-day  had  been  a  cold  lunch  at  one.  They 
would  have  it  on  the  north  veranda ; "  and  she  touched 
a  bell  to  give  the  order. 

Perhaps  Amy  Sherrett  would  hardly  have  consented,  but 
that  Rodney  gave  her  a  look,  comical  in  its  appeal,  over 
Sylvie's  shoulder,  as  she  stood  showing  him  a  great  scarlet 
Euphorbia  in  a  portfolio  of  water-colors,  and  said  with  a 
beseeching  significance,  — 

"  Consider  Red  Squirrel,  Amy.  He  really  did  have  a 
pretty  hard  pull ;  and  what  with  the  heat  and  the  flies,  I 
dare  say  he  would  take  it  with  more  equanimity  after 
sundown,  —  since  Mrs.  Argenter  is  so  very  kind." 

And  so  they  stayed  ;  and  Mrs.  Argenter  laid  another 
little  brick  in  her  "  House  that  Jack  built." 

At  this  same  time,  —  how  should  she  know  it  ?  — 
something  very  different  was  going  on  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  a  great  hotel  in  New  York.  Somebody  else 


54  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

who  had  meant  before  now  to  have  left  for  home,  had 
been  delayed  till  after  sundown.  Somebody  else  would 
go  over  the  road  by  dark  instead  of  by  daylight.  By 
dark,  —  though  there  should  be  broad,  beating  sunshine 
over  the  world  again  when  the  journey  should  be  made. 

While  Mrs.  Argenter's  maid  was  bringing  out  the  tray 
with  delicate  black-etched  china  cups,  and  costly  fruit 
plates  illuminated  with  color,  and  dainty  biscuits,  and 
large,  rare,  red  berries,  and  cream  that  would  hardly 
pour  for  richness  in  a  gleaming  crystal  flagon,  —  and 
ranging  them  all  on  the  rustic  veranda  table,  —  some 
thing  very  different,  —  very  grim,  —  at  which  the  occu 
pants  of  rooms  near  by  shuddered  as  it  passed  their  open 
doors,  —  was  borne  down  the  long,  wide  corridor  to  Num 
ber  Five,  in  the  Metropolitan  ;  and  at  the  same  moment, 
again,  a  gentleman,  very  grave,  was  standing  at  the  coun 
ter  of  the  Merchants'  Union  Telegraph  Company's  Office, 
writing  with  rapid  hand,  a  brief  dispatch,  addressed  to 
"Mrs.  I.  M.  Argenter,  Dorbury,  Mass.,"  and  signed 
"Philip  Burkmayer,  M.  D." 

Nobody  knew  of  any  one  else  to  send  to  ;  at  that  hour, 
especially,  when  the  office  in  State  Street  would  be  closed. 
Closed,  with  that  name  outside  the  door  that  stood  for 
nobody  now. 

The  news  must  go  bare  and  unbroken  to  her. 

Something  occurred  to  Doctor  Burkmayer,  however,  as 
he  was  just  handing  the  slip  to  the  attendant. 

"  Stop  ;  give  me  that  again,  a  minute,"  he  said  ;  and 
tearing  it  in  two,  he  wrote  another,  and  then  another. 

"  Send  this  on  at  once,  and  the  second  in  an  hour," 
he  said  ;  as  if  they  might  have  been  prescriptions  to  be 
administered.  "  They  may  both  be  delivered  together, 
after  all,"  he  continued  to  himself,  as  he  turned  away. 


NINETY-NINE  FAHRENHEIT. 

"But  it  is  all  I  can  do.  When  a  weight  is  let  drop,  it 
has  got  to  fall.  You  can't  ease  it  up  much  with  a  string 
measured  out  for  all  the  way  down  !  " 

The  young  woman  operator  at  the  little  telegraph  sta 
tion  at  Dorbury  Upper  Village  heard  the  call-click  as  she 
unlocked  the  room  and  came  in  after  her  half -hour  sup 
per  time.  She  set  the  wares  and  responded,  and  laid  the 
paper  slip  under  the  wonderful  pins. 

»  Tick-tick-tick  ;  tick-tick  ;  tick-tick-tick-tick,"  and  so 
on.  The  girl's  face  looked  startled,  as  she  spelled  the 
signs  along.  She  answered  back  when  it  was  ended  ; 
then  wrote  out  the  message  rapidly  upon  a  blank,  folded, 
directed  it,  and  went  to  the  open  street  door. 

«  Sim  !  Here  —  quick  !  "  she  called  to  a  youth  oppo 
site,  in  a  stable-yard. 

"  This  has  got  to  go  down  to  the  Argenter  Place.  And 
mind  how  you  give  it.  It's  bad  news." 

«  How  can  I  mind  ?  "  said  Sim,  gruffly.     "  I  spose 
must  give  it  to  who  comes." 

"  You  might  see  somebody  on  the  way,  and  speak  a 
word  ;  a  neighbor,  or  the  minister,  or  somebody.  'Tain't 
fit  for  it  to  go  right  to  her,  I  know.  Telegraphs  might 
as  well  be  something  else  when  they  can,  besides  light 
ning  !  " 

4°Donno's  I  can  go  travellin'  round  after  'em,  if  that's 
what  you  mean,"  said  Sim,  putting  the  envelope  in  his 
rough  breast  pocket,  and  turning  off. 

Sylvie  was  standing  on  the  stone  steps,  bidding  the 
Sherretts  good-by  ;  Amy  was  just  seated  in  the  gig,  and 
Rodney  about  to  spring  in  beside  her,  when  Sim  Atwill 
drove  up  the  avenue  in  the  rusty  covered  wagon  that  did 
telegraph  errands.  Red  Squirrel  did  not  quite  like  the 
sudden  coming  face  to  face,  as  Sim  reined  up  in  a  hurry 


56  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

just  below  the  door,  and  Rodney  had  to  pause  and  hold 
him  in. 

"  A  tellagrim  for  Mrs.  Argenter,"  said  Sim,  seizing 
his  opportunity,  and  speaking  to  whom  it  might  concern. 
"  Eighty  cents  to  pay,  and  I  'blieve  it's  bad  news." 

"  O,  Mr.  Sherrett,  stop,  please !  "  cried  Sylvie,  turn 
ing  white  in  the  dim  light.  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  Won't 
you  wait  a  minute,  Miss  Sherrett,  until  I  see  ?  Won't 
you  come  in  again  ?  Mother  will  be  frightened  to  death, 
and  I'm  all  alone." 

"  Jump  out,  Amy ;  I'll  take  Squirrel  round,"  was 
Rodney's  answer.  "  Go  right  up  ;  I'll  come." 

And  as  Sylvie  took  the  thin  envelope  that  held  so 
much,  and  the  two  girls  silently  passed  up  into  the  piazza 
again,  he  paid  Sim  the  eighty  cents  which  nobody  thought 
of  at  that  moment  or  ever  again,  and  sent  him  off." 

Sylvie  and  Amy  stopped  under  the  softly  bright  hall 
lantern.  Mrs.  Argenter  was  up-stairs  in  her  dressing 
room,  quite  at  the  end  of  the  long  upper  hall,  changing 
her  lace  sack  for  a  cashmere,  before  coming  out  into  the 
evening  air  again. 

"  I  think  I  shall  open  it  myself,"  whispered  Sylvie, 
tremulously  ;  "it  would  seem  worse  to  mother,  whatever 
it  is,  coming  this  way.  She  has  such  a  horror  of  a  tele 
gram."  She  looked  at  it  on  both  sides,  drew  a  little 
shivering  breath,  and  paused  again. 

"  Is  it  wicked,  do  you  think,  to  wish  it  may  be  —  only 
grandma,  perhaps  ?  Do  you  suppose  it  could  possibly  be 
—  my  father?" 

And  by  this  time  there  was  a  hysterical  sound  in  poor 
little  Sylvie's  voice. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Amy,  kindly.     "  Here's  Rod." 


NINETY-NINE  FAHRENHEIT. 


57 


"  OFFICE  OF  WESTERN  UNION  TELEGRAPH  Co., 

NEW  YORK,  July  2M,  187—. 

«  To  MRS.  I.  M.  ARGENTER,  Dorbury,  Mass. 

"  Mr.  Argenter  has  had  a  sunstroke.  Insensible.  Very 
serious.  Will  telegraph  again. 

"  PHILIP  BUKKMAYER,  M.  D." 

Sylvie's  eyes,  so  roundly  innocent,  so  star-like  in  their 
usual  bright  uplifting,  were  raised  now  with  a  wide  terror 
in  them,  first  to  Rodney,  then  to  Amy  ;  and  "  O  —  O  !  " 
broke  in  short,  subdued  gasps  from  her  lips. 

Then  they  heard  Mrs.  Argenter's  step  up-stairs. 
"  What  is  the  matter,  Sylvie  ?     What  are  you  doing  ? 
Who  is  with  you  down  there  ?  "  she  said,  over  the  bal 
uster,  from  the  hall  above. 

"  O,  mother  !  "  cried  Sylvie,  "  they  aren't  gone  ! 
"Something  has  come!  Go  up  and  tell  her,  Amy, 
please  !  "  And  forgetting  all  about  Amy  as  "  Miss  Sher- 
rett,"  and  all  her  fear  of  "  nice  girls,"  she  dropped  down 
on  the  lower  step  of  the  staircase  after  Amy  had  passed 
her  upon  her  errand,  put  her  face  between  her  hands  and 
caught  her  breath  with  frightened  sobs. 

Rodney,  leaning  against  the  newel  post,  looked  down 
at  her,  and  said,  after  the  manner  of  men,  —  u  Don't  cry. 
It  mayn't  be  very  bad,  after  all.  You'll  hear  again  in 
an  hour  or  two.  Can't  I  do  something  ?  I'll  go  to  the 
telegraph  office.  I'll  get  somebody  for  your  mother. 
Whom  shall  I  go  for  ?  " 

"  O,  you  are  very  kind.  I  don't  know.  Wait  a 
minute.  They  didn't  say  any  place  !  We  ought  to  go 
right  to  New  York,  and  we  don't  know  where  !  O, 
dear  I  "  She  had  lifted  her  head  a  little,  just  to  say  these 
broken  sentences,  and  then  it  went  down  again. 

Rodney  did  not  answer  instantly.     It  occurred  to  him 


58  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

all  at  once  what  this    "  not  saying  any  place "  might 
mean. 

Just  as  he  began,  —  "  You  couldn't  go  until  to-mor 
row," —  came  Mrs.  Argenter's  sharp  cry  from  her  room 
above.  Amy  had  walked  right  on  into  the  open,  lighted 
apartment,  Mrs.  Argenter  following,  not  daring  to  ask 
what  she  came  and  did  this  strange  thing  for,  till  Amy 
made  her  sit  down  in  her  own  easy  chair,  and  taking  her 
hands,  said  gently,  — 

"  It  is  a  telegram  from  New  York.  Mr.  Argenter  — 
is  very  ill."  Then  Mrs.  Argenter  cried  out,  "  That's 
not  all  !  I  know  how  people  bring  news  !  Tell  me  the 
whole."  And  Sylvie  sprang  to  her  feet,  hearing  the 
quick,  excited  words,  and  leaving  Rodney  Sherrett  stand 
ing  there,  rushed  up  into  the  dressing-room. 

This  was  the  way  the  same  sort  of  news  came  to  Sylvie 
Argenter  as  had  come  to  the  baker's  daughter.  Did  it 
really  make  any  difference  —  the  different  surrounding  of 
the  two  ?  The  great  house  —  the  lights  —  the  servants 
—  the  friends  ;  and  the  open  bake-shop  door,  the  village 
street,  the  blunt,  common-spoken  neighbor-woman,  and 
the  boy  with  the  brick  loaf  ? 

These  two  were  to  be  fatherless :  their  mothers  were 
both  to  be  widows  :  that  was  all. 

Did  it  happen  strangely  with  the  two  —  in  this  same 
story  ?  Who  know,  always,  when  they  are  in  the  same 
story  ?  These  things  are  happening  every  day,  and  one 
great  story  holds  us  all.  If  one  could  see  wide  enough, 
one  could  tell  the  whole. 

These  things  happen  :  and  then  the  question  comes,  — 
alike  in  high  and  low  places,  —  alike  with  money  and 
without  it,  —  what  the  women  and  the  girls  are  to  do  ? 

Rodney  Sherrett  took  his   sister   home;    drove  three 


NINETY-NINE   FAHRENHEIT.  59 

miles  round  and  brought  Mrs.  Argenter's  sister  to  her 
from  River  Point,  and  then  turned  toward  Dorbury 
Upper  Village  and  the  telegraph  office.  But  he  met  Sim 
Atwill  on  the  way,  received  the  telegram  from  him,  and 
hurried  back. 

It  was  the  dispatch  of  the  hour  later,  and  this  was  it :  — 

"  Mr.  Argenter  died  at  five  o'clock.     His  remains  will 
be  sent  home  to-morrow,  carefully  attended. 

"  PHILIP  BUKKMAYEB." 


60  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SPILLED   OUT  AGAIN. 

were  paragraphs  in  the  papers  ;  there  were 
resolutions  at  meetings  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  and 
of  the  Directors  of  the  Trimountain  Bank ;  there  was  a 
funeral  from  the  "late  residence,"  largely  attended;  there 
were  letters  and  calls  of  condolence ;  there  was  making  of 
crape  and  bombazine  and  silk  into  "mourning;"  there 
were  friends  and  neighbors  asking  each  other,  after  men 
tion  of  the  sad  suddenness,  "  how  it  would  be  ;  "  "  how 
much  he  had  left ;  "  "  was  there  a  will  ?  " 

And  there  was  a  will ;  made  three  years  before.  One 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  outright,  to  Increase  M.  Argen 
ter's  beloved  wife  ;  also  the  use  of  the  homestead ;  fifty 
thousand  dollars  to  his  daughter  Sylvia  on  her  reaching 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  or  on  her  marriage ;  all  else  to  be 
Mrs.  Argenter's  for  her  life-time,  reverting  afterward  to 
Sylvia  or  her  heirs. 

There  was  just  time  for  this  to  be  ascertained  and  told 
of;  just  time  for  Sylvie  to  be  named  as  an  heiress,  and 
then  all  at  once  something  else  came  to  light  and  was 
told  of. 

There  was  a  mining  speculation  out  in  Colorado ;  there 
was  Mr.  Argenter's  signature  for  heavy  security  ;•  there 
were  memoranda  of  good  safe  stocks  that  had  stood  in 
his  name  a  little  while  ago,  and  no  certificates  ;  there  had 
been  sales  and  sacrifices ;  going  in  deeper  and  to  more 
certain  loss,  because  of  risk  and  danger  already  run. 


SPILLED    OUT   AGAIN.  61 

Mr.  Sherrett,  senior,  came  home  to  dinner  one  day 
with  news  from  the  street. 

"  I've  been  very  sorry  to  hear  this  morning  that  Argen- 
ter  left  things  in  a  bad  way,  after  all.  There  won't  be 
much  of  anything  forthcoming.  All  swallowed  up  in 
mines  and  lands  that  have  gone  under.  That  explains 
the  sunstroke.  Half  the  cases  are  mere  worry  and  drive. 
In  the  old,  calm  times  it  was  scarcely  heard  of.  Now,  of 
a  hot  summer's  day  in  New  York,  a  hundred  or  two  men 
drop  down.  And  then  they  talk  of  unprecedented  heat. 
It  is  the  heat  and  the  ferment  that  have  got  into  life." 

"  Except  ye  repent,  ye  shall  all  likewise  perish,"  said 
the  quiet  voice  of  Aunt  Euphrasia.  "  How  strange  it  is 
that  men  have  never  interpreted  yet !  " 

"  Ah,  well!  I'm  not  sure  about  sins  and  judgments. 
I  don't  undertake  to  blame,"  said  Mr.  Sherrett.  "  Peo 
ple  are  born  into  a  whirl,  nowadays,  —  the  mass  of  them. 
How  can  they  help  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  But  we  begin  to  see  how  true  the 
words  were,  and  in  what  pity  they  must  have  been 
spoken,"  said  Aunt  Euphrasia.  "  Tremendous  physical 
forces  have  been  grasped  and  set  to  work  for  mere  ma 
terial  ends.  Spiritual  uses  and  living  haven't  kept  pace. 
And  so  there  is  a  terrible  unbalance,  and  the  tower  falls 
upon  men's  heads." 

"  Well,  poor  Argenter  wasn't  a  sinner  above  all  that 
dwelt  in  Jerusalem.  And  now,  there  are  his  wife  and 
daughter.  I'm  sorry  for  them.  They'll  find  it  a  hard 
time." 

"  I'm  sorry,  too,"  said  Aunt  Euphrasia,  with  heart-gen 
tleness.  She  could  not  help  seeing  the  eternal  laws  ;  she 
read  the  world  and  the  Word  with  the  inner  illumining  ; 
but  she  was  tender  over  all  the  poor  souls  who  were  not 


62  THE   OTHEK   GIRLS. 

to  blame  for  .the  whirl  of  fever  and  falseness  they  were 
born  into  ;  who  could  not  or  dared  not  fling  themselves 
out  of  it  upon  the  simple,  steadfast,  everlasting  verities, 
and  —  be  broken  ;  upon  whom,  therefore,  these  must  fall, 
and  grind  them  to  powder. 

"  How  will  it  be  with  them  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Do  you  mean  there  isn't  anything  left,  sir  ?  Nothing 
to  carry  out  the  will  ?  " 

Rodney  had  dropped  his  spoon  and  left  his  soup  im-  - 
tasted,  since  his  father  first  spoke  :  he  had  lifted  up  his 
eyes  quickly,  and  listened  with  his  whole  face,  but  he  had 
kept  silence  until  now. 

Amy  had  looked  up  also ;  startled  by  the  news,  and 
waiting  to  hear  more.  The  young  people  were  both  too 
really  interested,  from  their  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
first  misfortune,  to  reply  with  any  common  "Is  it  possi 
ble  ?  "  to  this. 

"  The  will,  I  am  afraid,  is  only  a  magnificent  '  might 
have  been,'  "  said  Mr.  Sherrett.  "  There  may  be  some 
thing  secured ;  there  ought  to  be.  Mrs.  Argenter  had  a 
small  property,  I  believe.  Otherwise,  as  such  things  turn 
out,  I  should  suppose  there  would  be  less  than  nothing." 

"  What'  will  they  do  ? "  The  question  came  from 
Aunt  Euphrasia,  again.  "Can't  somebody  help  them? 
There  is  so  much  money  in  the  world." 

"  Yes,  Effie.  And  there  is  gold  in  the  mines.  And 
there  are  plenty  of  kind  affections  in  the  world,  too  ;  but 
there's  loneliness  and  broken  heartedness,  for  all  that. 
The  difficulty  always  is  to  bring  things  together." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  just  what  people  were  made  for." 
"  It  will   be  one   more   family  of   precisely  that  sort 
whom  nobody  can  help,  directly,  and  who  scarcely  know 
how  to  help  themselves.     The  hardest  kind  of  cases." 


SPILLED   OUT   AGAIN.  63 

"  It's  an  awful  spill-out,  this  time,"  Rodney  said  to 
Amy,  as  she  followed  him,  after  her  usual  fashion,  to  the 
piazza,  when  dinner  was  over.  "  And  no  mistake  !  " 

Rodney  had  brought  a  cigar  with  him,  but  he  had  for 
gotten  his  match,  and  he  stood  crumbling  the  end  of  it, 
frowning  his  brows  together  in  a  way  they  were  not  often 
used  to. 

"  Will  they  have  to  go  away  ?  "  asked  Amy. 

"Out  of  that  house?  Of  course.  They'll  be  just 
tipped  out  of  everything." 

"  How  dreadful  it  will  be  for  Sylvie  !  " 

"  She  won't  stand  round  lamenting.  I've  seen  her 
tipped  out  before.  Amy,  I'll  tell  you  what ;  you  ought 
to  stick  by.  Maybe  she  won't  want  you,  at  first ;  but 
you  ought  to  do  it.  Father,"  —  as  Mr.  Sherrett  came  out 
with  his  evening  paper  to  his  cane  reclining  chair,  — 
"  you'll  go  and  see  Mrs.  Argenter,  shall  you  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  if  I  could  be  of  any  service.  But  one 
wouldn't  like  to  intrude.  There  are  executors  to  the 
will.  I  don't  know  that  it  is  quite  my  place." 

"I  don't  believe  there  will  be  much  intruding — of 
your  sort.  And  the  executors  have  got  nothing  to  do 
now.  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Jobling  and  Cardwell,  I  believe.  Men  down  town. 
Perhaps  she  might  like  to  see  a  neighbor.  Yes,  I  think  I 
will  go.  You  can  drive  me  round,  Rodney,  some  evening 
soon.  Whom  has  she,  of  her  own  people,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  Only  her  sister,  Mrs.  Lowndes,  you  know.  The 
brother-in-law  isn't  much,  I  imagine." 

"  Stephen  A.  Lowndes  ?     No.     Broken-down  and  out 
of  the  world.     He  couldn't   advise  to  any  purpose.     I 
fancy  Argenter  has  been  holding  him  up." 
"  I  think  they'll  be  very  glad  to  see  you,  sir." 


64  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

Rodney  drove  his  father  over  the  next  night.  Mr. 
Sherrett  went  in  alone.  Rodney  sat  in  the  chaise  out 
side. 

Mr.  Sherrett  waited  some  minutes  after  he  had  sent  up 
his  card,  and  then  Sylvie  came  down  to  him,  looking  pale 
in  her  black  dress,  and  with  the  trouble  really  in  her 
young  eyes,  over  which  the  brows  bent  with  a  strange 
heaviness. 

"I  could  not  persuade  mother  to  comedown,"  she  said. 
"  She  does  not  feel  able  to  see  anybody.  But  I  wanted 
to  thank  you  for  coming,  Mr.  Sherrett." 

"  I  thought  an  old  neighbor  might  venture  to  ask  if  he 
could  be  of  use.  A  lady  needs  some  one  to  talk  things 
over  with.  I  know  your  mother  must  have  much  to 
think  of,  and  she  cannot  have  been  used  to  business.  I 
should  not  come  for  a  mere  call  at  such  a  time.  I  should 
be  glad  to  be  of  some  service." 

"  Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  sit  down  a  few  minutes 
and  talk  with  me,  Mr.  Sherrett  ?  " 

There  was  a  difference  already  between  the  Sylvie  of 
to-day  and  the  Sylvie  of  a  few  weeks  ago.  It  was  no 
longer  a  question  of  little  nothings,  —  of  how  she  should 
get  people  in  and  how  she  could  get  them  out,  —  of  what 
she  should  do  and  say  to  seem  "  nice  all  through,"  like 
Amy  Sherrett.  Mr.  Sherrett  had  not  come  f or  a  "  mere 
call,"  as  he  said;  and  there  was  no  mere  "receiving." 
The  llama  lace  and  the  gray  silk  and  the  small  savoir 
faire  could  not  help  her  now.  Mrs.  Argenter  was  up 
stairs  in  a  black  tamise  wrapper  with  a  large  plain  black 
shawl  folded  about  her,  as  she  lay  in  the  chill  of  a  sud 
denly  cool  August  evening,  on  the  sofa  in  her  dressing- 
room, -which  for  the  last  week  or  two  she  had  rarely  left. 
All  at  once,  Sylvie  found  that  she  must  think  and  speak 
both  for  her  mother  and  herself. 


SPIEIED   OUT   AGAIN.  65 

Mrs.  Argenter  could  run  smoothly  in  one  polished 
groove  ;  she  was  thrown  out  now,  and  to  her-  the  whole 
world  was  off  its  axis.  Her  House  that  Jack  built  had 
tumbled  down  ;  she  thought  so,  not  accepting  this  strange 
block  that  had  come  to  be  wrought  in.  She  had  been 
counting  little  brick  after  little  brick  that  she  had  watched 
idly  in  the  piling  ;  now  there  was  this  great  weight  that 
she  could  not  deal  with,  laid  upon  her  hands  for  bearing 
and  for  using  ;  she  let  it  crush  her  down,  not  knowing 
that,  fitting  it  bravely  into  her  life  that  was  building,  it 
might  stand  there  the  very  threshold  over  which  she 
should  pass  into  perfect  shelter  of  content. 

"  Mother  has  been  entirely  bewildered  by  all  this 
trouble,"  said  Sylvie,  quietly,  to  Mr.  Sfcerrett.  "  I  don't 
think  she  really  understands.  She  has  lived  so  long  with 
things  as  they  are,  that  she  cannot  imagine  them  different. 
I  think  it  is  easier  with  me,  because,  you  know,  I  haven't 
been  used  to  anything  such  a  very  long  while." 

Sylvie  even  smiled  a  tremulous  little  smile  as  she  said 
this  ;  and  Mr.  Sherrett  looked  at  her  with  one  upon  his 
own  face  that  had  as  much  pitiful  tenderness  in  it  as  could 
have  shown  through  tears. 

"  You  see  we  shall  have  to  do  something  right  off,  — 
go  somewhere ;  and  mother  can't  change  the  least  thing. 
She  can't  spare  Sabina,  who  has  heard  of  a  good  place, 
and  must  go  soon  at  any  rate,  because  nobody  else  would 
know  where  things  belonged  or  are  put  away,  or  fetch 
her  anything  she  wanted.  And  the  very  things,  I  sup 
pose,  don't  belong  to  us.  How  shall  we  break  through 
and  begin  again  ?  "  Sylvie  looked  up  earnestly  at  Mr. 
Sherrett,  asking  this  question.  This  was  what  she  really 
wanted  to  know. 

"You  will  remove,  I   suppose?"  said   Mr.  Sherrett. 

5 


66  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"If  you  could  hear  of  a  house,  —  if  you  could  propose 
something  definite,  —  if  you  and  Sabina  could  begin  to 
pack  up,  —  how  would  that  be  ?  " 

He  met   her  inquiry  with  primary,  practical  sugges 
tions,  just  what  she  needed,  wasting  110  words.     He  saw 
it  was  the  best   service  he  could  do  this  little  girl  who* 
had  suddenly  become  the  real  head  of  the  household. 

"  I  have  thought,  and  thought,"  said  Sylvie ;  "  and 
after,  all,  mother  must  decide.  Perhaps  she  wouldn't 
want  to  keep  house.  I  don't  know  whether  we  could. 
She  spoke  once  about  boarding.  But  boarding  costs  a 
great  deal,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  To  live  as  you  would  need  to,  —  yes." 

"  I  should  hate  to  have  to  manage  small,  and  change 
round,  in  boarding.  I  know  some  people  who  live  so.  It 
would  give  me  a  very  mean  feeling.  It  would  be  like 
trying  to  get  a  bite  of  everybody's  bread  and  butter.  I'd 
rather  have  my  own  little  loaf." 

"  You  are  a  brave,  true  little  woman,"  said  Mr.  Sher- 
rett,  warmly.  "  All  you  want  is  to  be  set  in  the  right 
direction,  and  see  your  way.  You'll  be  sure  to  go  on." 

"  I  think  I  should.  If  mother  can  only  be  contented. 
I  think  I  should  rather  like  it.  I  could  understand  liv 
ing  better.  There  would  only  be  a  little  at  a  time.  A 
great  deal,  and  a  great  many  things,  make  it  a  puzzle." 

"  Have  you  any  knowledge  about  the  property  ?  " 

"Mr.  Cardwell  has  been  here  two  or  three  times.  He 
says  there  are  twelve  thousand  dollars  secured  to  mother 
by  a  note  and  mortgage  on  this  place.  It  was  money  of 
hers  that  was  put  into  it.  We  shall  have  the  income  of 
that ;  and  there  might  be  things,  perhaps,  that  we  should 
have  the  right  to  sell,  or  keep  to  furnish  with.  Seven 
and  a  half  per  cent.  011  twelve  thousand  dollars  would  be 


SPILLED   OUT  AGAIN.  bT 

nine  hundred  dollars  a  year.  If  we  had  to  pay  sixteen 
dollars  a  week  to  board,  it  would  take  eight  hundred  and 
thirty-two ;  almost  the  whole  of  it.  But  perhaps  we 
could  find  a  place  for  less ;  and  our  clothes  would  last 
a  good  while,  I  suppose." 

Sylvie  went  through  her  little  calculation,  just  as*  she 
had  made  it  over  and  over  before,  all  by  herself  ;  she  did 
not  stop  to  think  that  she  was  doing  the  small  sum  now 
for  the  enlightenment  of  the  great  Mr.  Sherrett,  who  cal 
culated  in  millions  for  himself  and  others,  every  day. 

"  You  would  hardly  be  comfortable  in  a  house  which 
you  could  rent  for  less  than  —  say,  four  hundred  dollars  ; 
and  that  would  leave  very  little  for  your  living.  Perhaps 
I  should  advise  you  to  board." 

"But  we  could  do  things,  maybe,  if  we  lived  by  our 
selves,  amongst  other  people  in  small  houses.  We  can't 
be  two  things,  Mr.  Sherrett,  rich  and  poor  ;  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  is  what  we  should  be  trying  for,  if  we  got 
into  a  boarding-house.  We  should  have  to  be  idle  and 
ashamed.  I  want  to  take  right  hold.  I'd  like  to  earn 
something  and  make  it  do." 

Sylvie's  eyes  really  shone.  The  spirit  that  had  worked 
in  her  as  a  little  child,  to  make  her  think  it  would  be  nice 
to  be  a  "  kitchen  girl,  and  have  a  few  things  in  boxes,  and 
Sundays  out,"  threw  a  charm  of  independence  and  enter 
prise  and  cosy  thrift  over  her  changed  position,  and  the 
chance  it  gave  her.  Mr.  Sherrett  wondered  at  the  child, 
and  admired  her  very  much. 

"  Could  you  teach  something  ?  Could  you  keep  a 
little  school?" 

"  I've  thought  about  it.  But  a  person  must  know  ever 
so  much,  nowadays,  to  keep  even  the  least  little  school. 
They  want  Kindergartens,  and  all  the  new  plans,  that  I 


b8  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

haven't  learnt.  And  it's  just  so  about  music.  You 
must  be  scientific  ;  and  all  I  really  know  is  a  few  little 
songs.  But  I  can  dance  well,  Mr.  Sherrett.  I  could  teach 
that." 

There  was  something  pathetically  amusing  in  this 
bringing  to  market  of  her  one  exquisite  accomplishment, 
learned  for  pleasure,  and  the  suggestion  of  it  at  this 
moment,  as  she  sat  in  her  strange  black  dress,  with  the 
pale,  worn  look  on  her  face,  in  the  home  so  shadowed  by 
heavy  trouble,  and  about  to  pass  away  from  their  pos 
session. 

"  You  will  be  sure  to  do  something,  I  see,"  said  Mr. 
Sherrett.  "  Yes,  I  think  you  had  better  have  a  quiet 
little  home.  It  will  be  a  centre  to  work  from,  and  some 
thing  to  work  for.  You  can  easily  furnish  it  from  this 
house.  Whatever  has  to  be  done,  you  could  certainly  be 
allowed  such  things  as  you  might  make  a  schedule  of. 
Would  you  like  me  to  talk  for  you  with  Mr.  Cardwell, 
and  have  something  arranged  ?  " 

"  O,  if  you  would  !  Mother  dreads  the  very  sound  of 
Mr.  Cardwell's  name,  and  the  thought  of  business.  She 
cannot  bear  it  now.  But  your  advice  would  be  so  differ 
ent  ! " 

Sylvie  knew  that  it  would  go  far  with  Mrs.  Argenter 
that  Mr.  Howland  Sherrett,  in  the  relation  of  neighbor 
and  friend,  should  plan  and  suggest  for  them,  rather  than 
Mr.  Richard  Cardwell,  a  stranger  and  mere  man  of  busi 
ness,  should  come  and  tell  them  things  that  must  be. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  think  I  don't  realize  things,  I've 
planned  and  imagined  so  much,"  Sylvie  began  again,  "  but 
I  couldn't  help  thinking.  It  is  all  I  have  had  to  do. 
There's  a  little  house  in  Upper  Dorbury  that  always 
seemed  to  me  so  pretty  and  pleasant ;  and  nobody  lives 


SPILLED   OUT   AGAIN.  69 

there  now.  At  least,  it  was  all  shut  up  the  last  time  I 
drove  by.  The  house  with  the  corner  piazza  and  the 
green  side  yard,  and  the  dark  red  roof  sloping  down,  just 
off  the  road  in  the  shady  turn  beside  the  bank  that  only 
leads  to  two  other  little  houses  beyond.  Do  you  know  ?  " 

Mr.  Sherrett  did  know.  They  were  three  houses  built 
by  members  of  the  same  family,  some  years  ago,  upon  an 
old  village  homestead  property.  Two  of  them  had  passed 
into  other  hands  ;  one  —  this  one  — remained  in  its  orig 
inal  ownership,  but  had  been  rented  of  late  ;  since  the 
war,  in  which  the  proprietor  had  made  money,  and  with 
it  had  bought  a  city  residence  in  Chester  Park. 

"  You  see  we  must  go  where  things  will  be  convenient. 
We  can't  ride  round  after  them  any  more.  And  we  could 
get  a  girl  up  there,  as  other  people  do,  for  general  house 
work.  I'm  afraid  mother  wouldn't  quite  like  being  in 
the  village,  but  of  course  there  can't  be  anything  that  she 
would  quite  like,  now.  And  we  aren't  really  separate 
people  any  longer ;  at  least,  we  don't  belong  to  the  separ 
ate  kind  of  people,  aiid  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  lonesomely 
separate.  It's  good  to  belong  to  some  kind  of  people  ; 
isn't  it?" 

u  I  think  it  is  very  good  to  belong  to  your  kind,  where- 
ever  they  are,  Miss  Sylvie.  Tell  your  mother  I  say  she 
may  be  glad  of  her  daughter.  I'll  find  out  about  the 
house  for  you,  at  any  rate.  And  I'll  see  Mr.  Cardwell ; 
and  I'll  call  again.  Good-night,  my  dear.  God  bless 
you  !  " 

And  the  grand  Mr.  Howland  Sherrett  pressed  Sylvie 
Argenter's  hand  in  both  of  his,  as  a  father  might  have 
pressed  it,  and  went  out  with  the  feeling  of  a  warm  rush 
from  his  heart  toward  his  eyes. 

"  That's  a  girl  like  a — whatever  there  is  that  means 


70  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

the  noblest  sort  of  woman,  and  I'm  not  sure  it  is  a 
queen  !  "  lie  said  to  Rodney,  as  he  seated  himself  in  the 
chaise,  and  took  the  reins  from  his  son's  hands. 

Mr.  Sherrett  was  apt  to  say  to  Rodney,  "  You  may 
drive  me  to  this  or  that  place,"  but  he  was  very  apt, 
also,  to  do  the  driving  himself,  after  all ;  especially  if  Ire 
was  somewhat  preoccupied,  and  forgot,  as  he  did  now. 

The  way  Mr.  Rowland  Sherrett  inquired  about  the 
red-roofed  house,  was  this  : 

He  went  down  to  Mr.  John  Horner's  store,  in  Opal 
Street,  and  asked  him  what  was  the  rent  of  it. 

"  Six  hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

"  Rather  high,  isn't  it,  for  the  situation  ?  " 

"  Not  for  the  situation  of  the  land,  I  guess,"  said  Mr. 
Horner.  I'm  paying  annexation  taxes." 

"  What  will  you  sell  the  property  for  as  it  stands  ?  " 

"  Eighty-five  hundred  dollars." 

"  I'll  give  you  eight  thousand,  Mr.  Horner,  in  cash, 
upon  condition  that  you  will  not  mention  its  having 
changed  hands.  I  have  some  friends  whom  I  wish  should 
live  there,"  he  added,  lest  some  deep  speculating  move 
should  be  surmised. 

Mr.  Horner  thought  for  the  space  of  thirty  seconds, 
after  the  rapid,  Opal  Street  fashion,  and  said,  — 

"  You  may  have  it.     When  will  you  take  the  deed  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning,  at  eleven  o'clock.  Will  that  be 
convenient  ?  " 

"  All  right.    Yes,  sir." 

And  the  next  morning  at  eleven  o'clock,  the  two  gen 
tlemen  exchanged  papers ;  Mr.  Horner  received  a  check 
on  the  First  National  Bank  for  eight  thousand  dollars, 
and  Mr.  Sherrett  the  title-deed  to  house  and  land  on 
North  Centre  Street,  Dorbury,  known  as  part  of  the  John 
Horner  estate,  and  bordering  so  and  so,  and  so  on. 


SPILLED    OUT    AGAIN.  71 

The  same  afternoon,  Mr.  Sherrett  called  at  Mrs.  Ar- 
genter's,  and  told  her  of  the  quiet,  pleasant,  retired,  yet 
central  house  and  garden  in  Upper  Dorbury,  which  he 
found  she  could  have  on  a  lease  of  two  or  three  years,  for 
a  rent  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  It  was  in  the 
hands  of  a  lawyer  in  the  village,  who  would  make  out 
the  lease  and  receive  the  payments.  He  had  inquired 
it  out,  and  would  conclude  the  arrangements  for  her,  if 
she  desired. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  desire  anything,  Mr.  Sherrett. 
I  suppose  I  must  do  what  I  can,  since  it  seems  I  am  not 
to  be  left  in  my  own  home  which  I  put  my  own  money 
into.  If  it  appears  suitable  to  you,  I  have  no  doubt  it  is 
right.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  I  am  sure.  Syl- 
vie  knows  the  house,  and  has  an  idea  she  likes  it.  She 
is  childish,  and  likes  changing.  She  will  have  enough  of 
it,  I  am  afraid." 

She  did  not  even  care  to  go  over  and  inspect  the  house. 
Sylvie  was  glad  of  that,  for  she  knew  it  could  be  made  to 
seem  more  homelike,  if  she  and  Sabina  could  get  the  par 
lor  and  her  mother's  rooms  ready  before  Mrs.  Argenter 
saw  it.  During  the  removal,  it  was  settled  that  they 
should  go  and  stay  with  Mrs.  Lowndes,  at  River  Point. 
This  practically  resulted  in  Mrs.  Argenter 's  remaining 
with  her  sister,  while  Sylvie  and  Sabina  spent  their  time, 
night  as  well  as  day,  often,  between  Argenter  Place  and 
the  new  house. 

Rodney  Sherrett  rode  through  the  village  one  day, 
when  they  were  busy  there  with  their  arrangements. 

Sylvie  stood  on  a  high  flight  of  steps  in  the  bay-win 
dow,  putting  up  some  white  muslin  curtains,  with  little 
frills  on  the  edges.  They  had  been  in  a  sleeping-room  at 
Argenter  Place.  All  the  furniture  of  the  house  had  been 

& 


72  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

appraised,  and  an  allowance  made  of  two  thousand  dol 
lars,  to  which  amount  Mrs.  Argenter  might  reserve  such 
articles  as  she  wished,  at  the  valuation.  So  much,  and 
two  thousand  dollars  in  cash,  were  given  her  in  exchange 
for  her  homestead  and  her  right  of  dower  in  the  unincum- 
bered  portion  of  the  estate,  upon  which  was  one  other 
smaller  mortgage.  No  other  real  property  appeared  in 
the  list  of  assets.  Mr.  Argenter  had,  unfortunately,  in 
vested  almost  wholly  in  bonds,  stocks,  and  those  last  ruin 
ous  mining  ventures.  The  land  out  in  Colorado  was  use 
less  ;  and  besides,  being  wild  land,  did  not  come  under 
the  law  of  dower. 

Mrs.  Argenter  thought  it  was  all  very  strange,  espe 
cially  that  a  sum  of  money,  —  eighteen  hundred  dollars, 
which  was  in  her  husband's  desk,  the  proceeds  of  some 
little  mortgage  that  he  had  just  sold,  —  was  not  hers  to 
keep.  She  came  very  near  stealing  it  from  the  estate, 
quietly  appropriating  it,. without  meaning  to  be  dishon 
est  ;  regarding  it  as  simply  money  in  the  house,  which 
her  husband  "  would  have  given  her,  if  she  had  wanted 
it,  the  very  day  before  he  died." 

Possibly  he  might ;  but  the  day  after  he  died,  it  was  no 
longer  his  nor  hers. 

To  go  back  to  Sylvie  in  the  bay-window.  Rodney 
rode  by,  then  wheeled  about  and  came  back  as  far  as  the 
stone  sidewalk  before  the  Bank  entrance.  He  jumped 
off,  hitched  Red  Squirrel  to  one  of  the  posts  that  senti 
neled  the  curbstone,  and  passed  quietly  round  into  the 
"  shady  turn." 

The  front  door  was  open,  and  boxes  stood  in  the  pas 
sage  ;  he  walked  in  as  far  as  the  parlor  door  ;  then  he 
tapped  with  his  riding-whip  against  the  frame  of  it. 
Sylvie  started  on  her  perch,  and  began  to  come  down. 


IN  THfc]  BAY   WINDOW. 


SPILLED  OUT   AGAIN.  73 

«  Don't  stop.  I  couldn't  help  coming  in,  seeing  you  as 
I  went  by,"  said  Rodney. 

Sylvie  sat  down  on  one  of  the  middle  steps.  She 
would  rather  keep  still  than  exhibit  herself  in  any  fur 
ther  movement.  Rodney  ought  to  have  known  better 
than  go  in  then  ;  if  indeed  he  did  not  know  better  than 
Sylvie  herself  did,  how  very  pretty  and  graceful  she 
looked,  all  out  of  regular  and  ordinary  gear. 

She  had  taken  off  her  hoops,  for  her  climbing;  her 
soft,  long  black  dress  fell  droopingly  about  her  figure 
and  rested  in  folds  around  and  below  her  feet  as  she  sat 
upon  the  step-ladder  ;  one  thick  braid  of  her  sunshiny 
hair  had  dropped  from  the  fastening  which  had  looped  it 
up  to  her  head,  and  hung,  raveling  into  threads  of  light, 
down  over  her  shoulder  and  into  her  lap;  her  cheeks 
were  bright  with  exercise  ;  her  eyes,  that  trouble  and 
thought  had  sobered  lately  to  dove-gray,  were  deep,  bril 
liant  blue  again.  She  was  excited  with  her  work,  and 
flushed  now  with  the  surprise  of  Rodney's  coming  in. 

"  How  pretty  you  are  going  to  look  here,"  said  Rod 
ney,  glancing  about. 

The  carpet  Sylvie  had  chosen  to  keep  for  the  parlor  - 
for  though  Mrs.  Argenter  had  feebly  discussed  and  osten 
sibly  dictated  the  list  as  Sylvie  wrote  it  down,  she  had 
really  given  up  all  choosing  to  her  with  a  reiterated,  help 
less,  "  As  you  please,"  at  every  question  that  came  up  — 
was  a  small  figured  Brussels  of  a  soft,  shadowy  water- 
gray,  with  a  border  in  an  arabesque  pattern.  This  had 
been  upon  a  guest  chamber  ;  the  winter  carpet  of  the 
drawing-room  was  an  Axminster,  and  Sylvie's  ideas  did 
not  base  themselves  on  Axminsters  now,  even  if  they 
might  have  done  so  with  a  two  thousand  dollar  allowance. 
She  only  hoped  her  mother  would  not  feel  as  if  there  were 


74  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

no  drawing  room  at  all,  but  the  whole  house  had  been 
put  up-stairs. 

The  window  draperies  were  as  I  have  said  ;  there  was 
a  large,  plain  library  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
with  books  and  baskets  and  little  easels  with  pictures, 
and  paper  weights  and  folders,  and  other  such  like  small 
articles  of  use  and  grace  and  cosy  expression  lying  about 
upon  it,  as  if  people  had  been  there  quite  a  while  and 
grown  at  home.  There  were  bronze  candelabra  on  the 
mantel  and  upon  brackets  each  side  the  bay  window. 
Pictures  were  already  hung,  —  portraits,  and  gifts,  not 
included  in  the  schedule,  —  a  few  nice  engravings,  and  one 
glowing  piece  of  color,  by  Mrs.  Murray,  which  Sylvie 
said  was  like  a  fire  in  the  room. 

"  I  am  only  afraid  it  is  too  fine,"  said  she,  replying 
to  Rodney.  "  I  really  want  to  be  like  our  neighbors,  — 
to  be  a  neighbor.  We  belong  here  now.  People  should 
not  drop  out  of  the  world,  between  the  ranks,  when 
changes  happen  ;  they  can't  change  out  of  humanity. 
Do  you  know,  Mr.  Sherrett,  — if  it  wasn't  for  the  thought 
of  my  poor  father,  and  my  mother  not  caring  about  any 
thing  any  more,  —  I  know  I  should  enjoy  the  chance  of 
being  a  village  girl  ?  " 

"  You'll  be  a  village  girl,  I  imagine,  as  your  parlor  is  a 
village  parlor.  All  in  good  faith,  but  wearing  the  rue 
with  a  difference." 

"  I  don't  mean  to.  I've  been  thinking,  — ever  so  much  ; 
and  I've  found  out  a  good  many  things.  It's  this  not  fall 
ing  on  to  anything  that  keeps  people  in  the  misery  of 
falling.  I  mean  to  come  to  land,  right  here.  I  guess  I 
preexisted  as  a  barefoot  maiden.  There's  a  kind  of  home- 
ishness  about  it,  that  there  never  was  in  being  elegant. 
I  wonder  if  I  have  got  anything  in  here  that  has  no  busi 
ness  ?  " 


SPILLED   OUT   AGAIN.  75 

"  Not  a  scrap.     I've  no  doubt  the  blacksmith's  wife's 
parlor  is  finer.     But  you  can't  put  the  character  out." 

"  I  mean  to  have  plants,  now  ;  in  this  bay  window.     I 
guess  I  can,  now  that  we  have  no  conservatory.     Village 
people  always  have  plants  in  their  windows,  and  mother 
won't  want  to  see  the  street  staring  in." 
"  Have  you  brought  some  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  ?     Those  great  oranges  and  daphnes  ? 
No  :  I  shall  have  little  window  plants  and  raise  them." 
"  But  meanwhile,  won't  the  street  be  staring  in  ?  " 
"  Well,  we  can  keep  the  blinds  shut,  for   the  warm 
weather." 

"  Amy  will  come  and  see  you,  when  you  are  settled  ; 
Amy  and  Aunt  Euphrasia ;  you'll  let  them,  won't  you  ? 
You  don't  mean  to  be  such  a  violent  village  girl  as  to  cut 
all  your  old  friends  ?  " 

"  Old  friends  ? "  Sylvie  repeated,  thoughtfully. 
"  Well,  it  does  seem  almost  old.  But  I  didn't  think  I 
knew  any  of  you  very  well,  only  a  little  while  ago." 

"  Until  the  overturns,"  said  Rodney.  "  It  takes  a 
shaking  up,  I  suppose,  sometimes,  to  set  things  right. 
That's  what  the  Shaker  people  believe  has  got  to  be  gen 
erally.  Do  you  know,  the  Scotch  —  Aunt  Euphrasia  is 
Scotch — have  a  way  of  using  the  word  'upset'  to 
mean  ;  set  up.'  I  think  that  is  what  you  make  it  mean, 
Miss  Sylvie.  I  understand  the  philosophy  of  it  now.  I 
got  my  first  illustration  when  I  tipped  you  out  there  at 
the  baker's  door." 

"  You  tipped  me  out  into  one  of  the  nicest  places  I 
ever  was  in.  I've  no  doubt  it  was  a  piece  of  the  prepa 
ration.  I  mean  to  have  Ray  Ingraham  for  my  intimate 
friend." 

Rodney  Sherret  did  not  say  anything  immediately  to 


76  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

this.  He  sat  on  the  low  cricket  upon  which  he  had  placed 
himself  near  the  door,  turning  his  soft  felt  hat  over  and 
over  between  his  hands.  He  was  not  quite  ready  to  per 
ceive  as  yet,  that  the  baker's  daughter  was  just  the  person 
for  Sylvie  Argenter's  intimate  friend  ;  and  he  had  a  dim 
suspicion,  likewise,  that  there  was  something  in  the  girl- 
constitution  that  prevented  the  being  able  to  have  more 
than  one  intimate  friend. 

He  repeated  presently  his  assurance  that  Amy  and 
Aunt  Euphrasia  would  come  over  to  see  them,  and  took 
himself  off,  saying  that  he  knew  he  must  have  been  horri 
bly  in  the  way  all  the  time. 

The  next  morning,  a  light  covered  wagon,  driven  by 
Mr.  Sherrett's  man,  llodgers,  came  up  the  Turn.  There 
was  nobody  at  the  red-roofed  house  so  early,  and  he  set 
down  in  the  front  porch  what  he  took  carefully,  one  at  a 
time,  from  the  vehicle,  —  some  two  dozen  lovely  green 
house  plants,  newly  potted  from  the  choicest  and  most 
flourishing  growth  of  the  season. 

When    Sylvie  and   Sabina  came  round  from   the  ten 
o'clock   street   car,  they   stumbled   suddenly   upon   this 
beauty  that  incumbered  the  entrance.     To  a  branch  of 
glossy  green,  luxuriant  ivy  was  tied  a  card,  — 
"  RODNEY  SHERRETT, 

With  friendly  compliments." 

Sylvie  really  sung  at  her  work  to-day,  placing  and  re 
placing  till  she  had  grouped  the  whole  in  her  wire  frames 
in  the  bay  window  so  as  to  show  every  leaf  and  spray 
in  light  and  line  aright. 

"  Why,  it  is  prettier  than  it  ever  was  at  the  old  place  ; 
isn't  it  Sabina  ?  It's  full  and  perfect ;  and  that  was  al 
ways  a  great  barrenness  of  glass.  The  street  can't  stare 
in  now.  I  think  mother  will  be  able  to  forget  that  there 
is  even  a  street  at  all." 


SPILLED   OUT   AGAIN.  77 

"  It's  real  nobby,"  said  Sabina. 

The  room  was  all  soft  green  and  gray :  green  rep  chairs 
and  sofa,  green  topped  library  table ;  green  piano  cover ; 
green  inside  blinds  ;  a  green  velvet  grape  leaf  border 
around  the  gray  papered  walls. 

Sabina,  though  a  very  elegant  housemaid,  patronized 
and  approved  cheerfully.  She  was  satisfied  with  the  new 
home.  There  had  not  been  a  word  of  leaving  since  it 
was  decided  upon.  She  had  her  reasons.  Sabina  was 
"  promised  to  be  married  "  next  spring.  Dignity  in  hex- 
profession  was  not  so  much  of  an  object  meantime,  nor 
even  wages ;  she  had  laid  up  money  and  secured  her 
standing,  living  always  in  the  first  families  ;  she  could 
afford  to  take  it  in  a  quiet  way  ;  "  it  wouldn't  be  so  both 
ering  nor  so  dressy  ;  "  Sabina  had  a  saving  turn  with  her 
best  things,  that  spared  both  trouble  and  money.  Be 
sides,  her  kitchen  windows  and  the  back  door  suited  her  ; 
they  looked  across  a  bit  of  unoccupied  land  to  the  back 
street  where  the  cabinet-shop  buildings  were.  Sabina 
was  going  to  marry  into  the  veneering  profession. 


78  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

A  LONG  CHAPTER   OF  A  WHOLE  YEAK. 

MR.  INGRAHAM,  the  baker,  did  not  die  that  day 
when  the  doctor's  chaise  stood  at  th,e  door,  and  all 
the  children  in  the  village  were  sent  in  for  brick  loaves. 
He  was  only  struck  down  helpless  ;  to  lie  there  and-  be 
waited  on  ;  to  linger,  and  wonder  why  he  lingered  ;  to  feel 
himself  in  the  way,  and  a  burden  ;  to  get  used  to  all  this, 
and  submit  to  it,  and  before  he  died  to  see  that  it  had 
been  all  right. 

The  bakery  lease  had  yet  two  years  to  run.  It  might 
have  been  sold  out,  but  that  would  have  involved  a  break 
ing  up  and  a  move,  which  Ingraham  himself  was  not  fit 
to  bear,  and  his  wife  and  daughters  were  not  willing  to 
think  of  yet. 

Rachel  quietly  said,  —  as  soon  as  her  father  was  so  far 
restored  and  comfortable  that  he  could  think  and  speak  of 
things  with  them,  — 

44 1  can  go  on  with  the  bakehouse.  I  know  how. 
The  men  will  all  stay.  I  spoke  to  them  Saturday  night." 

Ray  kept  the  accounts,  and  when  Saturday  night  came, 
the  first  after  the  misfortune  fell  upon  them,  she  called 
all  the  journeymen  into  the  little  bakery  office,  where  she 
sat  upon  the  high  stool  at  her  father's  desk.  She  gave 
each  his  week's  wages,  asking  each  one,  as  he  signed  .his 
name  in  receipt,  to  wait  a  minute.  Then  she  told  them 
all,  that  she  meant,  if  her  father  consented,  to  keep  on 
with  the  business. 

"  He  may  get  well,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  all  stand 
by  and  help  me  ?  " 


A  LONG   CHAPTER   OF  A   WHOLE   YEAR.  79 

"  'Deed  and  we  wull,"  said  Irish  Martin,  the  newest, 
the  smallest,  and  the  stupidest  —  if  a  quick  heart  and  a 
willing  will  can  be  stupid  —  of  them  all.  Some  stupidity 
is  only  brightness  not  properly,  hitched  on. 

Ray  found  that  she  had  to  go  on  making  brick  loaves, 
however.  She  must  keep  her  men  ;  she  could  not  expect 
to  train  them  all  to  new  ways  ;  she  must  not  make  radical 
experiments  in  this  trust-work,  done  for  her  father,  to 
hold  things  as  they  were  for  him.  Brick  loaves,  family 
loaves,  rolls,  brown  bread,  crackers,  cookies,  these  had  to 
be  made  as  the  journeymen  knew  how ;  as  bakers'  men 
had  made  them  ever  since  and  before  Mother  Goose  wrote 
the  dear  old  pat-a-cake  rhyme. 

Ray  wondered  why,  when  everybody  liked  home  bread 
and  home  cake,  —  if  they  could  stop  to  make  them  and 
knew  how,  —  home  bread  and  cake  could  not  be  made  in 
big  bakehouse  ovens  also,  and  by  the  quantity.  She 
thought  this  was  one  of  the  tilings  women  might  be  able 
to  do  better  than  men  ;  one  of  the  bits  of  world  business 
that  women  forced  to  work  outside  of  homes  might  ac 
complish.  Once,  men  had  been  necessary  for  the  big, 
heavy,  multiplied  labor ;  now,  there  was  machinery  to 
help,  for  kneading,  for  rolling  ;  there  was  steam  for  bak 
ing,  even  ;  there  were  no  longer  the  great  caverns  to  be 
filled  with  fire-wood,  and  cleared  by  brawny,  seasoned 
arms,  when  the  breath  of  them  was  like  the  breath  of  the 
furnace  seven  times  heated,  in  which  walked  Shadrach, 
Meshach,  and  Abednego.- 

Ray  had  often  thoughts  to  herself  ;  thoughts  here  and 
there,  that  touched  from  fresh  sides  the  great  agitations  of 
the  day,  which  she  felt  instinctively  were  beginning  wrong 
end  foremost.  "  I  will  work  ;  I  will  speak,"  cry  the 
women.  Very  well ;  what  hinders,  if  you  have  anything 


80  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

really  to  do,  really  to  say  ?  Opportunities  are  Avidening 
in  the  very  nature  and  development  of  things  ;  they  are 
showing  themselves  at  many  a  turn  ;  but  they  give  defi 
nite  business,  here  and  there  ;  they  quiet  down  those  who 
take  real  hold.  Outcry  is  no  business  ;  that  is  why  the 
idle  women  take  to  it,  and  will  do  nothing  else.  It  is  not 
they  who  are  moving  the  world  forward  to  the  clear  sun- 
rising  of  the  good  day  that  must  shine.  People  whose 
shoulders  are  at  steady,  small,  unnoticed  wheels  are  doing 
that. 

Dot  stayed  in  the  house  and  helped  her  mother.  She 
had  a  sewing-machine  also,  and  she  took  in  work  from  the 
neighbors,  and  from  ladies  like  Miss  Euphrasia  Kirkbright, 
and  Mrs.  Greenleaf ,  and  Mrs.  Farland,  who  drove  over  to 
bring  it  from  Roxeter,  and  East  Mills,  and  River  Point. 

"  Why  don't  you  call  and  see  me  ?  "  Sylvie  Argenter 
asked  one  day,  when  she  had  walked  over  to  the  shop 
with  a  small  basket,  in  which  to  put  brown  bread,  little 
fine  rolls  for  her  mother,  and  some  sugar  cookies.  Ray 
and  Dot  were  both  there.  Dot  was  sitting  with  her  sew 
ing,  putting  in  finishing  stitches,  button-holes,  and  the 
like.  She  was  behind  the  counter,  ready  to  mind  the 
calls.  Ray  had  come  in  to  see  what  was  wanting  of 
fresh  supplies  from  the  bakehouse. 

"  I've  been  expecting  you  ever  since  we  moved  into 
the  Turn.  Ain't  I  to  have  any  neighbors  ?  " 

The  little  court-way  behind  the  Bank  had  come  to  be 
called  the  Turn ;  Sylvie  took  the  name  as  she  found  it ; 
as  it  named  itself  to  her  also  in  the  first  place,  before  she 
knew  that  others  called  it  so.  She  liked  it ;  it  was  one 
of  those  names  that  tell  just  what  a  thing  is  ;  that  have 
made  English  nomenclature  of  places,  in  the  old,  original 
land  above  all,  so  quaint  and  full  of  pleasant  home  ex 
pression. 


A  LONG   CHAPTER   OF  A  WHOLE  YEAR.  81 

Dot  looked  up  in  surprise.  It  had  never  entered  her 
head  that  the  Argenters  would  expect  them  to  call ;  and 
truly,  the  Argenters,  in  the  plural,  were  very  far  in 
deed  from  any  such  imagination. 

Ray  took  it  more  quietly  and  coolly. 

"  We  are  always  very  busy,  since  my  father  has  been 
sick,"  she  said.  "  We  hardly  go  to  see  our  old  friends. 
But  if  you  would  like  it,  we  will  try  and  come,  some 
day." 

"  I  want  you  to,"  said  Sylvie.  "  But  I  don't  want  you 
to  call,  though  I  said  so.  I  want  you  to  come  right  in 
and  see  me.  I  never  could  bear  calls,  and  I  don't  mean 
ever  to  begin  with  them  again." 

The  Highfords  had  come  and  "  called,"  in  the  carriage, 
with  pearl-kid  gloves  and  long-tailed  carriage  dresses  ; 
called  in  such  a  way  that  Sylvie  knew  they  would  prob 
ably  never  call  again.  It  was  a  last  shading  off  of  the 
old  acquaintance  ;  a  decent  remembrance  of  them  in  their 
low  estate,  just  not  to  be  snobbish  on  the  vulgar  face  of 
it ;  a  visit  that  had  sent  her  mother  to  bed  with  a  morti 
fied  and  exasperated  headache,  and  taken  away  her  slight 
appetite  for  the  delicate  little  "  tea"  that  Sylvie  brought 
up  to  her  on  a  tray. 

The  Ingrahams  saw  she  really  meant  it,  and  they  came 
in  one  evening  at  first,  when  they  were  walking  by,  and 
Sylvie  sat  alone,  with  a  book,  in  the  twilight,  on  the  cor 
ner  piazza.  Her  mother  had  been  there ;  her  easy-chair 
stood  beside  the  open  window,  but  she  had  gone  in  and 
lain  down  upon  the  sofa.  Mrs.  Argfenter  had  drooped, 
physically,  ever  since  the  grief  and  change.  It  depends 
upon  what  one's  life  is,  and  where  is  the  spring  of  it,  and 
what  it  feeds  upon,  how  one  rallies  from  a  shock  of  any 
sort.  The  ozone  had  been  taken  out  of  her  atmos- 

6 


82  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

phere.  There  was  nothing  in  all  the  sweet  sunshine  of 
generous  days,  or  the  rest  of  calm -brooding  nights,  to  re 
store  her,  or  to  belong  to  her  any  more.  She  had  noth 
ing  to  breathe.  She  had  nothing  to  grow  to,  or  to  put 
herself  in  rapport  with.  She  was  out  of  relation  with  all 
the  great,  full  world. 

"  Whom  did  you  have  there?  "  she  asked  Sylvie,  when 
Ray  and  Dot  were  gone,  and  she  came  in  to  see  if  her 
mother  would  like  anything. 

"  The  Ingrahams,  mother  ;  our  neighbors,  you  know  ; 
they  are  nice  girls ;  I  like  them.  And  they  were  very 
kind  to  me  the  day  of  my  accident,  you  remember.  I 
called  first,  you  see !  And  besides,"  she  added,  loving 
the  whole  truth,  "  I  told  them  the  other  morning  I  should 
like  them  to  come." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  makes  any  difference,"  Mrs.  Ar- 
genter  answered,  listlessly,  turning  her  head  away  upon 
the  sofa  cushion. 

"  It  makes  the  difference,  Amata,"  said  Sylvie,  with  a 
bright  gentleness,  and  touching  her  mother's  pretty  hair 
with  a  tender  finger,  "  that  I  shall  be  a  great  deal  happier 
and  better  to  know  such  girls  ;  people  we  have  got  to  live 
amongst,  and  ought  to  live  a  little  like.  You  can't  think 
how  pleasant  it  was  to  talk  with  them.  All  my  life  it 
has  seemed  as  if  I  never  really  got  hold  of  people." 

"  You  certainly  forget  the  Sherretts." 

"No,  I  don't.  But  I  never  got  hold  of  them  much 
while  I  was  just  edging  alongside.  I  think  some  people 
grasp  hands  the  better  for  a  little  space  to  reach  across. 
You  mayn't  be  born  quite  in  the  purple,  as  Susan  Nipper 
would  say,  but  it  isn't  any  reason  you  should  try  to  pinch 
yourself  black  and  blue.  I've  got  all  over  it,  and  I  like 
the  russet  a  great  deal  better.  I  wish  you  could." 


A   LONG   CHAPTER    OF   A   WHOLE  YEAR.  83 

"  I  can't  begin  again,"  said  Mrs.  Argenter.  "  My  life 
is  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  there  is  the  end  of  it." 

It  was  true.  Sylvie  felt  that  it  was  so,  as  her  mother 
spoke,  and  she  reproached  herself  for  her  own  light  con 
tent.  How  could  her  mother  make  intimacy  with  Mrs. 
Knoxwell,  the  old  blacksmith's  wife,  or  Mrs.  Pevear,  the 
carriage-painter's  ?  Or  even  good,  homely  Mrs.  Ingra- 
ham,  over  the  bake-shop  ?  It  is  so  much  easier  for  girls 
to  come  together ;  girls  of  this  day,  especially,  who  in  all 
classes  get  so  much  more  of  the  same  things  than  their 
mothers  did. 

Sylvie,  authorized  by  this  feeble  acquiescence  in  what 
made  "  no  difference,"  went  on  with  her  intention  of 
having  Ray  Ingraham  for  her  intimate  friend.  She 
spent  many  an  hour,  as  the  summer  wore  away,  at  the 
time  in  the  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Argenter  was  always 
lying  down,  in  the  pleasant  bedroom  over  the  shop,  that 
looked  out  under  the  elm-tree.  This  was  Ray  Ingra- 
ham's  leisure  also ;  the  bread  carts  did  not  come  in  till 
tea  time,  with  their  returns  and  orders  ;  the  day's  second 
baking  was  in  the  oven  ;  she  had  an  hour  or  two  of  quiet 
between  the  noon  business  and  the  night ;  then  she  was 
always  glad  to  see  Sylvie  Argenter  come  down  the  street 
with  her  little  purple  straw  work-basket  swinging  from 
her  forefinger,  or  a  book  in  her  hand.  Sylvie  and  Ray 
read  new  books  together  from  the  Dorbury  library,  and 
old  ones  from  Mrs.  Argenter's  book-shelves.  Dot  was 
not  so  often  with  them ;  her  leisure  was  given  more  to 
her  flower  beds,  where  all  sorts  of  blooms,  —  bright  petu 
nias  and  verbenas,  delicate  sweet  peas  and  golden  lanta- 
nas,  scarlet  bouvardias  and  snowy  deutzias,  fairy,  fragrant 
jessamines,  white  and  crimson  and  rose-tinted  fuchsias 
with  their  purple  hearts,  and  pansies,  poised  on  their  light 


84  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

stems,  in  every  rich  color,  like  beautiful  winged  things 
half  alighted  in  a  great  fluttering  flock,  —  made  a  glory 
and  a  sweetness  in  the  modest  patch  of  ground  between 
the  grape-trellised  wall  of  the  house-end  and  the  bricks 
of  the  bakery,  against  which  grew,  appropriately  enough, 
some  strings  of  hop  vines. 

"  I  think  it  is  just  the  nicest  place  in  the  world,"  said 
Sylvie,  in  her  girlish,  unqualified  speech,  as  they  all  stood 
there  one  evening,  while  Dot  was  cutting  a  bouquet  for 
Sylvie's  mother.  "  People  that  set  out  to  have  every 
thing  beautiful,  get  the  same  things  over,  and  over ; 
graveled  drives  and  a  smooth  lawn,  and  trees  put  into 
groups  tidily,  and  circles  and  baskets  of  flowers,  and  a 
view,  perhaps,  of  a  village  away  off,  or  a  piece  of  the 
harbor,  or  a  peep  at  the  hills.  But  you  are  right  down 
amongst  such  niceness  !  There's  the  river,  close  by  ;  you 
can  hear  it  all  night,  tumbling  along  behind  the  mills  and 
the  houses  ;  there  are  the  woods  just  down  the  lane  beside 
the  bakehouse  ;  and  here  is  the  door-stone  and  the  shady 
trellis,  and  the  yard  crowded  full  of  flowers,  as  if  they 
had  all  come  because  they  wanted  to,  and  knew  they 
should  have  a  good  time,  like  a  real  country  party,  in 
stead  of  standing  off  in  separate  properness,  as  people  do 
who  'go  into  society.'  And  the  new  bread  smells  so 
sweet !  I  think  it's  what-for  and  because  that  make  it  so 
much  better.  Somebody  came  here  to  do  something  ; 
and  the  rest  was,  and  happened,  and  grew.  I  can't  bear 
things  fixed  up  to  be  exquisite  !  " 

"  That  is  the  real  doctrine  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven," 
said  a  sweet,  cheery  voice  behind  them.  They  all  turned 
round ;  Miss  Euphrasia  Kirkbright  stood  upon  the  door- 
stone. 

"  Being  and  doing.    Then  the  surrounding  is  born  out 


A  LONG   CHAPTER   OF  A  WHOLE   YEAR.  85 

of  the  living.  The  Lord,  up  there,  lets  the  saints  make 
their  own  glory." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  the  golden  streets  are  all  paved 
hard,  beforehand  ?  "  said  Sylvie.  She  understood  Miss 
Euphrasia,  and  chimed  quickly  into  her  key.  She  had 
had' talks  with  her  before  this,  and  she  liked  them. 

"  No  more  than  that,"  said  Miss  Kirkbright,  pointing 
4:o  the  golden  flush  under  the  soft,  piling  clouds  in  the 
west,  that  showed  in  glimpses  beneath  the  arches  of  the 
trees  and  across  the  openings  behind  the  village  build 
ings.  "  '  New  every  morning,  and  fresh  every  evening.' 
Doesn't  He  show  us  how  it  is,  every  day's  work  that  He 
himself  begins  and  ends  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  ever  live  like  that  ?  "  asked 
Ray  Ingraham,  perceiving. 

" '  Then  shall  the  righteous  shine  forth  as  the  sun,  in 
the  kingdom  of  their  Father,'  "  repeated  Miss  Euphrasia. 
"  And  the  shining  of  the  sun  makes  his.  worlds  around 
him,  doesn't  it  ?  We  sKall  create  outside  of  us  whatever 
is  in  us.  We  do  it  now,  more  than  we  know.  We  shall 
find  it  all,  by  and  by,  ready,  —  whatever  we  think  we  have 
missed  ;  the  building  not  made  with  hands." 

"  I'm  afraid  we  shall  find  ourselves  in  queer  places, 
some  of  us,"  said  Dot.  Dot  had  a  way  of  putting  little 
round,  practical  periods  to  things.  She  did  not  do  it  with 
intent  to  be  smart,  or  epigrammatic.  She  simply  an 
nounced  her  own  most  obvious  conclusion. 

"  c  The  first  last,  and  the  last  first.'  That  is  a  part  of 
the  same  thing.  The  rich  man  and  Lazarus  ;  knowing  as 
we  are  known ;  being  clothed  upon ;  unclothed  and  not 
found  naked  ;  the  wedding  garment.  You  cannot  touch 
one  link  of  spiritual  fact,  without  drawing  a  whole  chain 
after  it.  Some  other  time,  laying  hold  somewhere  e)se, 


8b  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

the  same  sayings  will  be  brought  to  mind  again,  to  con 
firm  the  new  thought.  It  is  all  alive,  breathing  ;  spirit 
in  atoms,  given  to  move  and  crystallize  to  whatever  cen 
tral  magnetism,  always  showing  some  fresh  phase  of  what 
is  one  and  everlasting." 

Miss  Euphrasia  could  no  more  help  talking  so  —  given 
the  right  circumstances  to  draw  her  forth  —  than  she 
could  help  breathing.  Her  whole  nature  was  fluid  to 
the  truth,  as  the  atoms  she  spoke  of.  Talking  with  her, 
you  saw,  as  in  a  divine  kaleidoscope,  the  gleams  and 
shiftings  and  combinings  of  heavenly  and  internal  things  ; 
shown  in  simplest  movings  and  relations  of  most  real 
and  every  day  experience  and  incident. 

But  she  never  went  on  —  and  "  went  over,"  exhorting. 
She  did  not  believe  in  discourses,  she  said,  even  from  the 
pulpit  —  very  much.  She  believed  in  a  sermon,  and  let 
ting  it  go.  And  a  sermon  is  just  a  word  ;  as  the  Word 
gives  itself,  in  some  fresh  manna-particle,  to  any  soul. 

So  when  the  girls  stood  silent,  as  girls  will,  not  know 
ing  how  to  break  a  pause  that  has  come  upon  such  speak 
ing,  she  broke  it  herself,  with  a  very  simple  question  ;  a 
question  of  mere  little  business  that  she  had  come  to  ask 
Dot. 

"  Were  the  little  under-ker chiefs  done  ?  " 

It  was  just  the  same  sweet,  cheery  tone  ;  she  dropped 
nothing,  she  took  up  nothing,  turning  from  the  inward  to 
the  outside.  It  was  all  one  quiet,  harmonious  sense  of 
wholeness  ;  living,  and  expression  of  living.  That  was 
what  made  Miss  Euphrasia's  "  words  "  chord  so  pleas 
antly,  always,  without  any  jar,  upon  whatever  string  was 
being  played ;  and  the  impulse  and  eeho  of  them  to  run 
on  through  the  music  afterward,  as  one  clear  bell-stroke 
marking  an  accent,  will  seem  to  send  its  lingering  impres 
sion  through  the  unaccented  measures  following. 


A  LONG   CHAPTER   OF  A  WHOLE  YEAR.  87 

Dot  went  into  the  house  and  got  the  things  ;  fine  cam 
bric  neck-covers,  frilled  around  the  throat  with  delicate 
lace.  She  folded  them  small,  and  put  them  in  a  soft 
paper.  Miss  Kirkbright  took  the  parcel,  and  paid  Dot 
the  money  for  her  work  ;  she  gave  her  three  dollars. 
Then  she  said  to  Sylvie,  — 

"  Will  you  walk  as  far  as  the  car  corner  with  me  ?  I 
have  missed  a  real  call  that  I  meant  to  have  had  with 
you.  I  have  been  to  your  house." 

"  Did  you  see  mother?  "  Sylvie  asked,  as  they  walked 
on,  having  said  good-by,  and  passed  out  through  the 
shop. 

"  No :  Sabina  said  she  was  lying  down,  and  I  would 
not  have  her  disturbed.  I  came  partly  to  tell  you  a  little 
news.  Amy  is  engaged  to  Mr.  Robert  Truesdaile.  They 
will  be  married  in  the  fall,  and  go  out  to  England.  He 
has  relatives  there  ;  his  mother's  family.  There  is  an 
uncle  living  near  Manchester  ;  a  large  cotton  manufac 
turer  ;  he  would  like  to  take  his  nephew  into  the  busi 
ness  ;  he  has  a  great  desire  to  get  him  there  and  make  an 
Englishman  of  him." 

"  Does  Amy  like  it  ?  I  mean,  going  to  England  ?  I  am 
ever  so  glad  for  her  being  so  happy." 

"  Yes,  she  likes  it.  At  any  rate  she  likes,  as  we  all 
do,  the  new  pleasant  beginnings.  We  are  all  made  to 
like  fresh  corners  to  turn,  unless  they  seem  very  dark 
ones,  or  unless  we  have  grown  very  old  and  tired,  which  1 
think  there  is  never  any  need  of  doing." 

"  How  busy  she  will  be  ! "  was  Sylvie's  next  remark, 
made  after  a  pause  in  which  she  realized  to  herself  the 
news,  and  received  also  a  little  suggestion  from  it. 

"  Yes,  pretty  busy.  But  such  preparations  are  made 
'  easily  in  these  days." 


88  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  Won't  there  be  ever  so  many  little  things  of  that 
sort  to  be  done  ?  "  asked  Sylvie,  signifying  the  parcel 
which  Miss  Kirkbright  held  lightly  in  her  fingers.  "  I 
wish  I  could  do  some  of  them.  I  mean,"  —  she  gathered 
herself  up  bravely  to  say,  —  "I  should  like  dearly  to  do 
anything  for  Amy  ;  but  I  have  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  plan  —  if  I  could  —  to  do  something  like  that  'or  tr 
sake  of  earning  ;  as  Dot  Ingraham  does." 

"  Do  you  not  have  quite  enough  money,  my  dear  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Kirkbright,  in  her  kindly  direct  way  that 
could  never  hurt. 

"  Not  quite.  At  least,  it  don't  seem  to  go  vei  far. 
There  are  always  things  that  we  didn't  expect.  *.nd 
things  count  up  so  at  the  grocer's.  And  a  litt  '  ce 
meat  every  day,  —  which  we  have  to  have,  —  tui  u. 
so  very  expensive.  And  Sabina's  wages  —  and  nA  her's 
wine  —  and  cream  —  and  fresh  eggs,  —  I  get  so  w  Tied 
when  the  bills  come  in  !  " 

Sylvie's  voice  trembled  with  the  effort  and  excitement 
of  telling  her  money  and  housekeeping  troubles. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  we  ought  to  have  a  cheaper  girl ; 
but  I  have  just  as  much  as  I  can  do,  —  of  those  kinds  of 
work,  —  and  a  poor  girl  would  waste  everything  if  I  left 
her  to  go  on.  And  I  don't  know  much,  myself.  If  Sa- 
bina  were  to  go,  —  and  she  will  next  spring,  —  I  am 
afraid  it  would  turn  out  that  we  should  have*  to  keep 
two." 

For  all  Sylvie's  little  "  afternoons  out,"  it  was  very 
certain  that  she,  and  Sabina  also,  did  have  their  hands 
full  at  home.  It  is  wonderful  how  much  work  one  person, 
who  does  none  of  it  and  who  must  live  fastidiously,  can 
make  in  a  small  household.  From  Mrs.  Argenter'-e  hot 
water,  and  large  bath,  and  late  breakfast  in  the  morning, 


A  i^NG    CHAPTER   OF  A  WHOLE    YEAR.  89 

• 
to  her  glass  of  milk  at  nine  o'clock  at  night,  which  she 

never  could  remember  to  carry  up  herself  from  the  tea- 
t  Jble,  —  she  needed  one  person  constantly  to  look  after 
1  3r  individual  wants.  And  she  couldn't  help  it,  poor 
7  ,dy,  either ;  that  is  the  worst  of  it ;  one  gets  so  as  not  to 
l>e  able  to  help  things  ;  "  it  was  the  shape  of  her  head," 
jabina  said,  in  a  phrase  she  had  learned  of  the  cabinet 
maker. 

"  You  shall  have  anything  you  can  do ;  just  as  Dot 
does,"  said  Miss  Euphrasia.  "  And  Amy  will  like  it  all 
the  better  for  your  doing.  You  can  put  the  love  into  the 
work,  as  much  as  we  shall  into  the  pay." 

Yv  5  there  ever  anybody  who  handled  the  bare  facts 
oi  1  so  graciously  as  this  Miss  Euphrasia  ?  She  did  it 
b;y  M  idng  right  hold  of  them,  by  their  honest  handles,  — 
as  th  -^y  were  meant  to  be  taken  hold  of. 

"  You  like  your  home  ?  You  haven't  grown  tired  of 
being  a  village  girl  ? "  she  said,  as  she  and  Sylvie  sat 
down  on  a  great  flat  projecting  rock  in  the  shaded  walk 
beside  the  railroad  track.  They  had  just  missed  one  car ; 
there  would  not  be  another  for  twenty  minutes. 

"  O,  yes.  No  ;  -I  haven't  got  tired  ;  but  I  don't  feel 
as  if  I  had  quite  been  it,  yet.  I  don't  think  I  am  exactly 
that,  or  anything,  now.  That  is  the  worst  of  it.  People 
don't  understand.  They  won't  take  us  in,  —  all  of  them. 
It's  just  as  hard  to  get  into  a  village,  if  you  weren't  born 
in  it,  as  it  is  to  get  into  upper-ten-dom.  Mrs.  Knoxwell 
called,  and  looked  round  all  the  time  with  her  nose  up  in 
a  sort  of  a  way, — well,  it  was  just  like  a  dog  stilling 
round  for  something.  And  she  went  off  and  told  about 
mother's  poor,  dear,  old,  black  silk  dress,  that  I  mail0-  into 
a  cool  skirt  and  jacket  for  her.  '  Some  folks  must  be 
always  set  up  in  silk,  she  sposed.'  Eve1  ybody  isn't  like 
the  Ingrahams." 


90  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

tt 

"  No  garment  of  this  life  fits  exactly.  There  was  only 
one  seamless  robe.  But  we  mustn't  take  thought  for  rai 
ment,  you  see.  The  body  is  more.  And  at  last,  — 
somehow,  sometime,  —  we  shall  be  all  clothed  perfectly 
—  with  his  righteousness." 

This  was  too  swift  and  light  in  its  spiritual  touching 
and  linking  for  Sylvie  to  follow.  She  had  to  ask,  as  the 
disciples  did,  for  a  meaning. 

"  It  isn't  clothes  that  I  am  thinking  of,  or  that  trouble 
me ;  or  any  outside.  And  I  know  it  isn't  actual  clothes 
you  mean.  Please  tell  me  plainer,  Miss  Euphrasia." 

"I  mean  that  I  think  He  meant  by  'raiment,'  not 
clothes  so  much  as  life  ;  what  we  put  011  or  have  put  on 
to  us  ;  what  each  soul  wears  and  moves  in,  to  feel  itself 
by  and  to  be  manifest  ;  history,  circumstance.  '  Rai 
ment,' —  'garment,' — the  words  always  stand  for  this, 
beyond  their  temporary  and  technical  sense.  c  He  laid 
aside  his  garment,'  —  He  gave  up  his  own  life  that  He 
might  have  been  living,  —  to  come  and  wash  our  feet  !" 

"  And  the  people  cast  their  garments  before  Him,  when 
He  rode  into  Jerusalem,"  Sylvie  said  presently. 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  the  way  He  must  come  into  his  king 
dom,  and  lead  us  with  Him.  We  are  to  give  up  our  old 
ways,  and  the  selfish  things  we  lived  in  once,  and  not 
think  about  our  own  raiment  any  more.  He  will  give  it 
to  us,  as  He  gives  it  to  the  lilies ;  and  the  glory  of  it  will 
be  something  that  we  could  not  in  any  way  spin  for  our 
selves.  And  by  and  by  it  will  come  to  be  full  and  right, 
all  through  ;  we  shall  be  clothed  with  his  righteousness. 
What  is  righteousness  but  rightness  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  only  meant  goodness.  That  we  hadn't 
any  goodness  of  our  own ;  that  we  mustn't  trust  in  it, 
you  know  ?  " 


A  LONG   CHAPTER   OP  A  WHOLE  YEAR.  91 

"  But  that  his,  by  faith,  is  to  cover  us  ?  That  is  the 
old  letter-doctrine,  which  men  didn't  look  through  to  see 
how  graciously  true  it  is,  and  how  it  gives  them  all 
things.  For  it  is  things  they  want,  all  the  time  ;  reali 
ties,  of  experience  and  having.  They  talk  about  an  ab 
stract  'justification  by  faith,'  and  struggle  for  an  abstract 
experience  ;  not  seeing  how  good  God  is  to  tell  them 
plainly  that  his  justifying  '  is  setting  everything  right 
for  them,  and  round  them,  and  in  them  :  his  Tightness  is 
sufficient  for  them ;  they  need  not  go  about,  worrying,  to 
establish  their  own.  The  minute  they  give  up  their 
wrongness,  and  fall  into  its  line,  it  works  for  them  as  no 
working  of  their  own  could  do.  God  doesn't  forgive  a 
soul  ideally,  and  leave  it  a  mere  clean,  naked  conscious 
ness  ;  He  brings  forth  the  best  robe  and  puts  it  on  ;  a 
ring  for  the  hand,  and  shoes  for  the  feet.  People  try 
painfully  to  achieve  a  ghostly  sort  of  regeneration  that 
strips  them  and  leaves  them  half  dead.  The  Lord  heals 
and  binds  up,  and  puts  his  own  garment  upon  us  ;  He 
knows  that  we  have  need"  Miss  Kirkbright  repeated, 
earnestly.  "  Salvation  is  a  real  having ;  not  an  escape 
without  anything,  as  people  run  for  their  lives  from  fire 
or  flood." 

Sylvie  had  listened  with  a  shining  face. 

"You  get  it  all  from  that  one  word,  —  'raiment.' 
Your  words  —  the  words  you  find  out,  Miss  Kirkbright  — 
are  living  things." 

"  Yes,  words  are  living  things,"  Miss  Kirkbright  an 
swered.  "  God  does  not  give  us  anything  dead.  But  the 
life  of  them  is  his  spirit,  and  his  spirit  is  an  instant 
breath.  You  can  take  them  as  if  they  were  dead,  if  you 
do  not  inspire.  Men  who  wrote  these  words,  inspired. 
We  talk  about  their  being  inspired,  as  if  it  were  a  passive 


92  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

thing ;  and  quarrel  about  it,  and  forget  to  breathe  our 
selves.  It  is  all  there,  just  as  live  as  it  ever  was  ;  it  is 
given  over  again  every  time  we  go  for  it ;  when  we  find 
it  so,  we  never  need  trouble  any  more  about  authority. 
We  shall  only  thank  God  that  He  has  kept  in  the  world 
the  records  of  his  talk  with  men  ;  and  the  more  we  talk 
with  Him  ourselves,  the  deeper  we  shall  understand  their 
speech." 

"  Isn't  all  that  about '  inner  meanings,'  —  that  words  in 
the  Bible  stand  for,  —  Swedenborgian,  Miss  Kirkbright  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  "     Miss  Kirkbright  smiled. 

"  Are  you  a  Swedenborgian  ? "  Sylvie  asked  the 
question  timidly. 

u  I  believe  in  the  New  Church,"  answered  Miss  Eu- 
phrasia.  "  But  I  don't  believe  in  it  as  standing  apart, 
locked  up  in  a  system.  I  believe  in  it  as  a  leaven  of  all 
the  churches ;  a  life  and  soul  that  is  coming  into  them. 
I  think  a  separate  body  is  a  mistake  ;  though  I  like  to 
worship  with  the  little  family  with  which  I  find  myself 
most  kin.  We  should  do  that  without  any  name.  The 
Lord  gave  a  great  deal  to  Swedenborg :  but  when  his 
time  comes,  He  doesn't  give  all  in  any  one  place,  or  to 
any  one  soul ;  his  coming  is  as  the  lightening  from  the 
one  part  to  the  other  part  under  heaven.  Lightening  — 
not  lightning  ;  it  is  wrongly  printed  so,  I  think.  He  set 
the  sun  in  the  sky,  once  and  forever,  when  He  came  in 
his  Christ ;  since  then,  day  after  day  dawns,  everywhere, 
and  uttereth  speech  ;  and  even  night  after  night  showeth 
knowledge.  I  believe  in  the  fuller,  more  inward  dispen 
sation.  Swedenborg  illustrated  it,  —  received  it,  won 
derfully  ;  but  many  are  receiving  the  same  at  this  hour, 
without  ever  having  heard  of  Swedenborg.  For  that 
reason,  we  may  never  be  afraid  about  the  truth.  It  is 

* 


A  LONG   CHAPTER   OF  A   WHOLE  YEAR.  93 

not  here  or  there.  This  or  that  may  fail  or  pass  away, 
but  the  Word  shall  never  pass  away." 

"  What  a  long  talk  we  have  had  !  How  did  we  get 
into  it?" 

The  car  was  coming  up  the  slope,  half  a  mile  off. 
They  could  see  the  red  top  of  it  rising,  and  could  hear 
the  tinkle  of  the  bell. 

"  I  wish  we  didn't  need  to  get  out !  "  said  Sylvie.  "  I 
wish  I  could  tell  it  to  my  mother  !  " 

"Can't  you?" 

"  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  keep  alive,  —  with  me,"  Sylvie 
answered,  with  a  little  sigh  and  shadow.  "  Not  even  as 
these  flowers  will  that  I  am  taking  to  her.  I  can  take,  — 
but  I  can't  give,  and  I  always  feel  so  that  I  ought  to. 
Mother  needs  the  comfort  of  it.  Why  don't  you  come 
and  talk  to  her,  Miss  Kirkbright  ?  " 

"  Talk  on  purpose  never  does.  You  and  I  '  got  into 
it,'  as  you  say.  Perhaps  your  mother  and  I  might.  But 
I  have  got  over  feeling  about  such  sort  of  giving  —  in 
words  —  as  a  duty.  Even  with  people  whom  I  work 
among  sometimes,  who  need  the  very  first  gift  of  truth, 
so  much  !  We  can  only  keep  near  and  dear  to  each  other, 
Sylvie,  and  near  and  dear  to  the  Lord.  Then  there  are 
the  two  lines  ;  and  things  that  are  equal  —  or  similarly 
related  — to  the  same  thing,  are  related  to  one  another. 
He  can  make  the  mark  that  proves  and  joins,  any  time. 
Did  you  know  there  was  Bible  in  geometry,  Sylvie  ?  I  very 
often  go  to  my  old  school  Euclid  for  a  heavenly  comfort." 

"  I  think  you  go  to  everything  for  it  —  and  to  every 
body  with  it,"  said  Sylvie,  squeezing  her  friend's  hand  as 
she  left  her  on  the  car-step. 

Nothing  comes  much  before  we  need  it.  This  talk 
stayed  by  Sylvie  through  months  afterwards,  if  not  the 


94  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

word  of  it,  always  the  subtle  cheer  and  strength  of  it, 
that  nestled  into  her  heart  underneath  all  her  upper 
thinkings  and  cares  of  day  by  day,  and  would  not  quite 
let  them  settle  down  upon  the  living  core  of  it  with  a 
hopeless  pressure. 

For  the  real  stress  of  her  new  life  was  bearing  upon 
her  heavily.  The  first  poetry,  the  first  fresh  touches 
with  which  she  had  made  pleasant  signs  about  their  al 
tered  condition,  were  passed  into  established  use,  and 
dulled  into  wornness  and  commonness.  The  difficulties 
—  the  grapples  —  came  thick  and  forceful  about  her.  At 
the  same  time,  her  reliances  seemed  slipping  away  from 
her. 

She  had  hardly  known,  any  more  than  her  mother,  how 
much  the  countenance  and  friendliness  of  the  Sherrett 
family  had  done  in  upholding  her.  It  was  a  link  with 
the  old  things  —  the  very  best  of  the  old  things,  —  that 
stood  as  a  continual  assurance  that  they  themselves  were 
nob  altered  —  lowered  in  any  way  —  by  their  alterings. 
This  came  to  Sylvie  with  an  interior  confirmation,  as  it 
did  to  Mrs.  Argenter  exteriorly.  So  long  as  Miss  Kirk- 
bright  and  the  Sherretts  indorsed  anything,  it  could  not 
harm  them  much,  or  fence  them  out  altogether  from  what 
they  had  been.  Amy  Sherrett  and  Miss  Kirkbright 
thought  well  of  the  Ingrahams,  and  maintained  all  their 
dealings  with  them  in  a  friendly  —  even  intimate  —  fash 
ion.  If  Sylvie  chose  to  sit  with  them  of  an  afternoon,  it 
was  no  more  than  Miss  Euphrasia  did.  Also,  the  old 
Miss  Goodwyns,  who  lived  up  the  Turn  behind  the 
maples,  were  privileged  to  offer  Miss  Kirkbright  a  cup  of 
tea  when  she  went  in  there,  as  she  would  often  for  an 
hour's  talk  over  knitting  work  and  books  that  had  been 
lent  and  read.  Sylvie  might  well  enough  do  the  same,  or 


A  LONG   CHAPTER   OF  A  WHOLE  YEAR.  95 

go  to  them  for  hints  and  helps  in  her  window-gardening 
and  little  ingenuities  of  housekeeping.  Mrs.  Argenter 
deluded  herself  agreeably  with  the  notion  that  the  rela 
tions  in  each  case  were  identical.  But  what  with  the 
Sherretts  and  Miss  Kirkbright  were  mere  kindly  incidents 
of  living,  apart  somewhat  from  the  crowd  of  daily  de 
mand  and  absorption,  were  to  Sylvie  the  essential  resource 
and  relaxation  of  a  living  that  could  find  little  other. 

Sylvie  let  her  mother's  reading  pass,  not  knowing  how 
far  Mrs.  Argenter  was  able  actually  to  believe  in  it  her 
self,  but  clearly  and  thankfully  recognizing  on  her  own 
part  the  reality,  —  that  she  had  these  friends  and  re 
sources  to  brighten  what  would  else  be,  after  all,  pretty 
hard  to  endure. 

The  Knoxwells  and  the  Kents  and  old  Mrs.  Sunderline 
were  hardly  neighbors,  as  she  had  meant  to  neighbor  with 
them.  The  Knoxwells  and  the  Kents  were  a  little  jeal 
ous  and  suspicious  of  her  overtures,  as  she  had  said,  and 
would  not  quite  let  her  in.  Besides,  she  did  not  draw 
toward  Marion  Kent,  who  came  to  church  with  French 
gilt  bracelets  on,  and  a  violently  trimmed  polonaise,  as 
she  did  toward  Dot  and  Ray. 

Old  Mrs.  Sunderline  was  as  nice  and  cosy  as  could  be ; 
but  she  never  went  out  herself,  and  her  whole  family  con 
sisted  of  herself,  her  sister,  —  Aunt  Lora,  the  tailoress,  — 
and  her  son,  the  young  carpenter,  whom  Sylvie  could  not 
help  discerning  was  much  noted  and  discussed  among  the 
womenkind,  old  and  young,  as  a  village  —  what  shall  I 
say,  since  I  cannot  call  my  honest,  manly  Frank  Sunder 
line  a  village  beau  ?  A  village  desirable  he  was,  at  any 
rate.  Of  course,  Sylvie  Argenter  could  not  go  very 
much  to  his  home,  to  make  a  voluntary  intimacy.  And 
all  these,  if  she  and  they  had  cared  mutually  ever  so 


96  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

much,  would  have  been  under  Mrs.  Argenter's  proscrip 
tion  as  mere  common  work-and-trade  people  whom  nobody 
knew  beyond  their  vocations.  There  was  this  essential 
difference  between  the  baker's  daughters  whom  the  Sher- 
rett  family  noticed  exceptionally  and  the  blacksmith's 
and  carpenter's  households,  the  woman  who  "  took  in  fine 
washing,"  and  her  forward,  dressy,  ambitious  girl.  Though 
the  baker's  daughters  and  the  good  Miss  Goodwyns  them 
selves  knew  all  these  in  their  turn,  quite  well,  and  be 
longed  among  them.  The  social  "  laying  on  of  hands  " 
does  not  hold  out,  like  the  apostolic  benediction,  all  the 
way  down. 

I  began  these  last  long  paragraphs  with  saying,  that 
neither  Sylvie  nor  her  mother  had  known  how  far  their 
comfort  and  acquiescence  in  their  new  life  had  depended 
on  the  "backing  up"  of  the  Sherretts.  This  they 
found  out  when  the  Sherretts  went  away  that  autumn. 
Amy  was  married  in  October  and  sailed  for  England ; 
Rodney  was  at  Cambridge,  and  when  the  country  house 
at  Roxeter  was  closed,  Miss  Euphrasia  took  rooms  in 
Boston  for  the  winter,  where  her  winter  work  all  lay,  and 
Mr.  Sherrett,  who  was  a  Representative  to  Congress,  went 
to  Washington  for  the  session.  There  were  no  more 
calls  ;  no  more  pleasant  spending  of  occasional  days  at 
the  Sherrett  Place  ;  no  more  ridings  round  and  droppings 
in  of  Rodney  at  the  village.  All  that  seemed  suddenly 
broken  up  and  done  with,  almost  hopelessly.  Sylvie 
could  not  see  how  it  was  ever  to  begin  again.  Next 
year  Rodney  was  to  graduate,  and  his  father  was  to  take 
him  abroad.  These  plans  had  come  out  in  the  talks  over 
Amy's  marriage  and  her  leaving  home. 

Sylvie  was  left  to  her  village  ;  she  could  only  go  in  to 
the  Miss  Goodwyns  and  down  to  the  bakery ;  and  now 


A   LONG   CHAPTER    OF   A   WHOLE   YEAR.  97 

that  her  condescensions  were  unlinked  from  those  of  Miss 
Kirk  bright,  and  just  dropped  into  next-door  matter  of 
course,  Mrs.  Argenter  fretted.  Marion  Kent  would  come 
calling,  too,  and  talk  about  Mrs.  Browning,  and  borrow 
patterns,  and  ask  Sylvie  "  how  she  hitched  up  her  Mar 
guerite." 

[In  case  this  story  should  ever  be  read  after  the  fashion 
I  allude  to  shall  have  disappeared  from  the  catalogues  of 
Butterick  and  Demorest,  to  be  never  more  mentioned  or 
remembered,  I  will  explain  that  it  is  a  style  of  upper 
dress  most  eminently  un-daisy-like  in  expression  and  ef 
fect,  and  reminding  of  no  field  simplicities  whatsoever, 
unless  possibly  of  a  hay-load  ;  being  so  very  much  pitch 
forked  up  into  heaps  behind.] 

Not  that  Sylvie  dressed  herself  with  a  pitchfork ;  she 
had  been  growing  more  sensible  than  that  for  a  long  time., 
to  say  nothing  of  her  quiet  mourning ;  though  for  that 
matter,  I  have  seen  bombazine  and  crape  so  volumin 
ously  bundled  and  massed  as  to  remind  one  of  the  slang 
phrase  "  piling  on  the  agony."  But  Marion  Kent  came 
to  Sylvie  for  the  first  idea  of  her  light  loops  and  touches  : 
then  she  developed  it,  as  her  sort  do,  tremendously ;  she 
did  grandly  by  the  yard,  what  Sylvie  Argenter  did  mod 
estly  by  the  quarter  ;  she  had  a  soul  beyond  mere  nips  and 
pinches.  But  this  was  small  vexation,  to  be  caricatured  by 
Miss  Kent.  Sylvie's  real  troubles  came  closer  and  harder. 

Sabina  Bowen  went  away. 

She  had  not  meant  to  be  married  until  the  spring  ;  but 
she  and  the  cabinet-maker  had  had  their  eyes  upon  a  cer 
tain  half -house,  —  neat  and  pretty,  with  clean  brown 
paint  and  a  little  enticing  gingerbread  work  about  the 
eaves  and  porch,  —  which  was  to  be  vacated  at  that  time  ; 
and  it  happened  that,  through  some  >  jiforeseen  circum- 


98  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

stances,  the  family  occupying  it  became,  suddenly  desirous 
to  get  rid  of  the  remainder  of  their  lease,  and  move  this 
winter.  John  came  to  Sabina  eagerly  one  evening  with 
the  news. 

Sabina  thought  of  the  long  winter  evenings,  and  the 
bright  double-burner  kerosene  she  had  saved  up  money  for ; 
of  a  little  round  table  with  a  red  cloth,  and  John  one  side 
of  it  and  she  the  other  ;  of  sitting  together  in  a  pew,  and 
going  every  Sunday  in  her  bride-bonnet,  instead  of  get 
ting  her  every- other-Sunday  forenoon  and  hurrying  home 
to  fricassee  Mrs.  Argenter's  chicken  or  sweet-bread,  and 
boil  her  cauliflower ;  and  so  she  gave  warning  the  next 
morning  when  she  was  emptying  Mrs.  Argenter's  bath 
and  picking  up  the  towels.  She  steeled  herself  wisely 
with  choice  of  time  and  person ;  it  would  have  been  hard 
to  tell  Miss  Sylvie  when  she  came  down  to  dust  the  par 
lor,  or  into  the  kitchen  to  make  the  little  dessert  for  din 
ner. 

And  now  poor  Sylvie  fell  into  and  floundered  in  that 
slough  of  despond,  the  lower  stratum  of  the  Irish  kitchen 
element,  which  if  one  once  meddles  with,  it  is  almost 
hopeless  to  get  out  of ;  and  one  very  soon  finds  that  to 
get  out  of  it  is  the  only  hope,  folorn  as  it  may  be. 

She  had  one  girl  who  made  sour  bread  for  a  fortnight, 
and  then  flounced  off  on  a  Monday  morning,  leaving  the 
clothes  in  the  tubs,  because  "  her  bread  was  never  faulted 
before,  an'  faith,  she  wudn't  pit  up  biscuits  of  a  Sunday 
night  no  more  for  annybody  !  "  The  next  one  disposed 
of  all  the  dish  towels  in  four  days,  behind  barrels  and  in 
the  corners  of  the  kettle  closet,  and  complained  insolently 
of  ill  furnishing  ;  a  third  kindled  her  fire  with  the  clothes 
pins  ;  a  fourth  wore  Mrs.  Argenter's  cambric  skirts  on 
Sunday,  "  for  a  finish,  jist  to  make  'em  worth  while  for 


A  LONG   CHAPTER   OF   A   WHOLE   YEAB.  99 

the  washin',"  and  trod  out  the  heels  of  three  pairs  of 
Sylvie's  best  stockings,  for  a  like  considerate  and  econom 
ical  reason.  Another  declined  peremptorily  the  use  of  a 
flat-iron  stand,  and  burnt  out  triangular  pieces  from  the 
ironing  sheet  and  blanket ;  and  when  Sylvie  remonstrated 
with  her  about  the  skirt-board,  which  she  had  newly  cov 
ered,  finding  her  using  it  as  a  cleaning  cloth  after  she  had 
heated  her  "  flats  "  upon  the  coals,  she  was  met  with  a 
torrent  of  abuse,  and  the  assurance  that  she  "  might  get 
somebody  else  to  save  her  old  rags  with  their  apurns,  an' 
iron  five  white  skirts  and  tin  pairs  o'  undersleeves  a  week 
for  two  women,  at  three  dollars  an'  a  half.  She  had 
heard  enough  about  the  place  or  iver  she  kini  intil  it,  an' 
the  bigger  fool  she  iver  to  iv  set  her  fut  inside  the  dooers." 
That  was  it.  It  came  to  that  pass,  now.  They 
"heard  about  the  place  before  iver  they  kim  intil  it.'' 
The  Argenter  name  was  up.  There  was  no  getting  out 
of  the  bog-mire.  Sylvie  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  village 
refuse,  and  had  to  go  to  Boston  to  the  intelligence  offices. 
By  this  time  she  hadn't  a  kitchen  or  a  bedroom  fit  to 
show  a  decent  servant  into.  They  came,  and  looked,  and 
went  away  ;  half-dozens  of  them.  The  stove  was  burnt 
out ;  there  was  a  hole  through  into  the  oven  ;  nothing 
but  an  entire  new  one  would  do,  and  a  new  one  would 
cost  forty  dollars.  Poor  Sylvie  toiled  and  worried  ;  she 
went  to  Mrs.  Ingraham  and  the  Miss  Goodwyns,  and 
Sabina  Galvin,  for  advice ;  she  made  ash-paste  and 
cemented  up  the  breaches,  she  hired  a  woman  by  the 
clay,  put  out  washing,  and  bought  bread  at  the  bake 
house.  All  this  time,  Mrs.  Argenter  had  her  white  skirts 
and  her  ruffled  underclothing  to  be  done  up.  "  What 
could  she  do?  She  hadn't  any  plain  things,  and  she 
couldn't  get  new,  and  she  must  be  clean." 


100  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

At  New  Year's,  they  owed  three  hundred  dollars  that 
they  could  not  pay,  beside  the  quarter's  rent.  They  had 
to  take  it  out  of  their  little  invested  capital ;  they  sold 
ten  shares  of  railroad  stock  at  a  poor  time ;  it  brought 
them  eight  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars.  They 
bought  their  new  stove,  and  some  other  things ;  they 
hired,  at  last,  two  girls  for  the  winter,  at  three  dollars 
and  two  and  a  half,  respectively ;  this  was  a  saving  to 
what  they  had  been  doing,  and  they  must  get  through  the 
cold  weather  somehow.  Besides,  Mrs.  Argenter  was  now 
seriously  out  of  health.  She  had  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  fall  sick  under  her  troubles,  and  she  had  honestly  and 
effectually  done  it. 

But  how  should  they  manage  another  year,  and  an 
other  ?  How  long  would  they  have  any  income,  if  such 
a  piece  was  to  be-  taken  out  of  the  principal  every  six 
months  ? 

In  the  spring,  Mrs.  Argenter  declared  it  was  of  no  use ; 
they  must  give  up  and  go  to  board.  They  ought  to  have 
done  it  in  the  first  place.  Plenty  of  people  got  along  so 
with  no  more  than  they  had.  A  cheap  place  in  the  coun 
try  for  the  summer  would  save  up  to  pay  for  rooms  in 
town  for  the  winter.  She  couldn't  bear  another  hot 
season  in  that  village,  — nor  a  cold  one,  either.  A  second 
winter  would  be  just  madness.  What  could  two  women 
do,  who  had  never  had  anything  to  provide  before,  with 
getting  in  coal,  and  wood,  and  vegetables,  and  everything, 
,and  snow  to  be  shoveled,  and  ashes  sifted,  and  fires  to 
[make,  and  girls  going  off  every  Monday  morning  ? 

She  had  just  enough  reason,  as  the  case  stood,  for  Syl- 
vie  not  to  be  able  to  answer  a  word.  But  the  lease,  — 
for  another  year?  What  should  they  do  with  that? 
Would  Mr.  Frost  take  it  off  their  hands  ? 


A  LONG  CHAPTER   OF   A   WHOLE   YEA 


£ 


If  Sylvie  had  known  who  really  stood  behind  Mr. 
Frost,  and  how ! 

The  little  poem  of  village  living,  —  of  home  simple- 
ness  and  frugal  prettiness,  —  of  that,  the  two  first  lines 
alone  had  rhymed ! 

They  had  entered  upon  the  last  quarter  of  their  first 
year  when  they  came  to  this  united  and  definite  conclu 
sion.  That  month  of  May  was  harsh  and  stormy.  Noth 
ing  could  be  done  about  moving  until  clearer  and  finer 
weather.  So  the  rent  was  continued,  of  course,  until  the 
year  expired,  and  in  June  they  would  pack  up  and  go 
away. 

Sylvie  had  been  to  the  doctor,  first,  and  told  him  about 
her  mother  ;  and  he  had  called,  in  a  half-friendly,  half- 
professional  way,  to  see  her.  After  his  call,  he  had  had 
an  honest  talk  with  Sylvie. 

God  sometimes  shows  us  a  glimpse  of  a  future  trouble 
that  He  holds  in  his  hand,  to  neutralize  the  trouble  we 
are  immediately  under ;  even,  it  may  be,  to  turn  it  into 
a  quietness  and  content.  When  Sylvie  had  heard  all 
that  Doctor  Sainswell  had  to  say,  she  put  &  way  her 
money  anxiety  from  off  her  mind,  at  once  and  finally. 
Nothing  was  any  matter  now,  but  that  her  mother  should 
go  where  she  would,  —  have  what  she  wanted. 

Then  she  went  to  see  Mr.  Frost. 

"  He  would  write  to  his  employer,"  he  said  ;  he  could 
not  give  an  answer  of  himself. 

The  answer  came  in  five  days.  They  might  relin 
quish  the  house  at  any  moment ;  they  need  pay  the  rent 
only  for  the  time  of  their  occupancy.  It  would  suit  the 
owner  quite  as  well ;  the  place  would  let  readily. 

Sylvie  was  happy  as  she  told  her  mother  how  nicely 
it  had  come  out.  She  might  have  been  less  so,  had  she 


102  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

seen  Mr.  Sherrett's  face  when  he  read  his  agent's  letter, 
and  replied  to  it  in  those  three  lines  without  moving 
from  his  seat. 

u  I  might  have  expected  it,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  She's 
a  child  after  all.  But  she  began  so  bravely  !  And  it 
can't  help  being  worse  by  and  by.  Well,  one  can't  live 
people's  lives  for  them."  And  he  turned  back  to  his 
other  papers,  —  his  notes  of  yesterday's  debate  in  the 
House. 

Early  in  June,  there  came  lovely  days. 

Sylvije  was  very  busy.  She  had  kept  her  two  girls 
with  her  to  the  end,  by  dint  of  raising  their  wages  a 
dollar  a  week  each,  for  the  remainder  of  their  stay.  She 
had  the  whole  house  to  go  over ;  even  a  year's  accu 
mulation  is  formidable,  when  one  has  to  turn  out  and 
dispose  of  everything  anew.  She  began  with  the  attic  ; 
the  trunks  and  the  boxes.  She  had  to  give  away  a  great 
deal  that  would  have  been  of  service  had  they  continued 
to  live  quietly  on.  Two  old  proverbs  asserted  themselves 
to  her  experience  now,  and  kept  saying  themselves  over 
to  her  as  she  worked :  "  A  rolling  stone  gathers  no 
moss ;  "  "  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  a  fire." 

She  had  come  down  in  her  progress  as  far  as  the 
closets  of  their  own  rooms,  and  the  overlooking  of  their 
own  clothing,  when  one  afternoon,  as,  still  in  her  wrap 
per,  she  was  busy  at  the  topmost  shelves  of  her  mother's 
wardrobe,  with  little  fear  of  any  but  village  calls,  and 
scarcely  those,  wheels  came  up  the  Turn,  and  names  were 
suddenly  announced. 

"  Miss  Harkbird  and  Mr.  Shoot!  " 

Sylvie  caught  in  a  flash  the  idea  of  what  the  girl  ought 
to  have  said.  She  laughed,  she  turned  red,  and  the  tears 


A  LONG   CHAPTER    OF   A   WHOLE  YEAR. 

very  nearly  sprang  to  her  eyes,  with  surprise,  amusement, 
embarrassment  and  flurry. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  Give  me  your  hand,  Katy  !  And 
where  on  earth  is  my  other  dress  ?  Can't  you  learn  to 
get  names  right  ever,  Katy?  Miss  Kirkbright  and  Mr. 
Sherrett.  Say  I  will  be  down  presently.  O,  what  hair  ! 

She  was  before  the  glass  now ;  she  caught  up  stray 
locks  and  thrust  in  hairpins  here  and  there  ;  then  she 
tied  a  little  violet-edged  black  ribbon  through  the  toss 
and  rumple,  and  somehow  it  looked  all  right.  Anyway, 
her  eyes  were  brilliant ;  the  more 'brilliant  for  that  cloud 
iness  beneath  which  they  shone. 

Her  eyes  shone  and  her  lips  trembled,  as  she  came  into 
the  room  and  told  Miss  Euphrasia  how  glad  she  was  to 
see  them.  For  she  remembered  then  why  she  was  so 
glad  ;  she  remembered  the  things  she  had  longed  to  go  to 
Miss  Euphrasia  with,  all  the  hard  winter  and  doubtful 
spring. 

"We  are  going  away,  you  see,"  she  told  her  presently. 
"  Mother  must  have  a  change.  It  does  not  suit  her  here 
in  any  way.  We  are  going  to  Lebanon  for  a  little  while  ; 
then  we  shall  find  some  quiet  place,  in  the  mountains, 
-perhaps.  In  the  winter,  we  shall  have  to  board  in  the 
city.  Mother  can't  be  worried  any  longer ;  she  must 
have  what  she  wants." 

Miss  Kirkbright  glanced  round  the  pretty  parlor,  as 
yet  undisturbed  ;  at  all  that,  with  such  labor,  Sylvie  had 
arranged  into  a  home  a  year  ago. 

"  What  a  care  for  you,  dear !  What  will  you  do  with 
everything?  " 

"  We  are  going  to  store  some  of  our  furniture,  and  sell 
some.  Dot  Ingraham  is  to  take  my  plants  forme  till  we 
come  back  to  Boston ;  then  I  shall  have  them  in  our 
rooms.  I  hope  the  gas  won't  kill  them." 


104  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Rodney  Sherrett  said  nothing  after  the  first  greeting, 
for  some  minutes.  He  only  sat  and  listened,  with  a  sober 
shadow  in  his  handsome  eyes.  All  this  was  so  different 
from  anything  he  had  anticipated. 

By  and  by,  in  a  little  pause,  he  told  her  that  he  had 
come  out  to  ask  her  for  Class  Day. 

"  I  wouldn't  just  send  a  card  for  the  spread,"  said  he. 
"  Aunt  Euphrasia  wants  you  to  go  with  her.  I'm  in  the 
Reward  of  Merit  lisb,  you  see ;  I've  earned  my  good 
time  ;  been  grinding  awfully  all  winter.  I've  even  got  a 
part  for  Commencement.  Only  a  translation ;  and  it 
probably  won't  be  called  ;  but  wouldn't  you  like  to  hear 
it,  if  it  were  ?  " 

"  O,  I  wish  I  could !  "  said  Sylvie,  replying  in  earnest 
good  faith  to  the  question  he  asked  quizzically  for  a  cover 
to  his  real  eagerness  in  letting  her  know.  "  I  wish  I 
could  !  But  we  shall  be  gone." 

"  Not  before  Class  Day  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  just  about  then.     I'm  so  sorry." 

Rod  Sherrett  looked  very  much  as  if  he  thought  he  had 
"  ground  "  for  nothing. 

Then  they  talked  about  Lebanon,  and  the  new  Ver 
mont  Springs  ;  perhaps  Mrs.  Argenter  would  go  to  some 
of  them  in  July.  Miss  Kirkbright  told  Sylvie  of  a  dear 
little  place  she  had  found  last  year,  in  the  edge  of  the 
White  Mountain  country ;  "  among  the  great  rolling 
hills  that  lead  you  up  and  up,"  she  said,  "  through  whole 
counties  of  wonderful  wild  beauty ;  the  sacred  places  of 
simple  living  that  can  never  be  crowded  and  profaned. 
It  is  a  nook  to  hide  away  in  when  one  gets  discouraged 
with  the  world.  It  consoles  you  with  seeing  how  great 
and  safe  the  world  is,  after  all ;  how;  the  cities  are  only 
blots  that  men  have  made  upon  it ;  picnicking  here  and 


A  LONG  CHAPTER   OF  A   WHOLE  YEAR.  105 

there,  as  it  were,  with  their  gross  works  and  pleasures, 
and  making  a  little  rubbish  which  the  Lord  could  clean 
all  away,  if  He  wanted,  with  one  breath,  out  of  his  grand, 
pure  heights." 

All  the  while  Sylvie  and  Rodney  had  their  own  young 
disappointed  thoughts.  They  could  not  saji  them  out ; 
the  invitation  had  been  given  and  been  replied  to  as  it 
must  be  ;  this  was  only  a  call  with  Aunt  Euphrasia  ; 
everything  that  they  might  have  in  their  minds  could  not 
be  spoken,  even  if  they  could  have  seen  it  quite  clearly 
enough  to  speak  ;  they  both  felt  when  the  half  hour  was 
over,  as  if  they  had  said  —  had  done  —  nothing  that  they 
ought,  or  wanted  to.  And  neither  knew  it  of  the  other  ; 
that  was  the  worst. 

When  Rodney  at  last  went  out  to  untie  his  horse,  Miss 
Euphrasia  turned  round  to  Sylvie  with  a  question. 

44  Is  this  all  quite  safe  and  easy  for  you,  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Sylvie,  frankly,  understanding  her. 
44 1  have  given  up  all  that  worry.  There  is  money  enough 
for  a  good  while  if  we  don't  mind  using  it.  And  it  is 
mother's  money  ;  and  Dr.  Sainswell  says  she  cannot  have 
a  long  life." 

Sylvie  spoke  the  last  sentence  with  a  break ;  but  her 
voice  was  clear  and  calm,  • —  only  tender. 

"And  after  that?"  Miss  Kirkbright  asked,  looking 
kindly  into  her  face. 

"  After  that  I  shall  do  what  I  can  ;  what  other  girls  do, 
who  haven't  money.  When  the  time  comes  I  shall  see. 
All  that  comes  hard  to  me  —  after  mother's  feebleness — 
is  the  changing ;  the  not  staying  of  anything  anywhere. 
My  life  seems  all  broken  and  mixed  up,  Miss  Kirkbright. 
Nothing  goes  right  on  as  if  it  belonged." 

44  4  Lo,  it  is  I ;  be   not  afraid,'  "  repeated  Miss  Kirk- 


106  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

bright  softly.  "  When  things  work  and  change,  in  spite 
of  us,  we  may  know  it  is  the  Lord  working.  That  is 
the  comfort,  —  the  certainty." 

The  tenderness  that  had  been  in  heart  and  voice  sprang 
to  tears  in  Sylvie's  eyes,  at  that  word. 

"  How  do  you  think  of  such  things  ?  "  she  said,  ear 
nestly.  "  I  shall  never  forget  that  now." 

Aunt  Euphrasia  could  not  help  telling  Rodney  as  they 
drove  away  toward  the  city,  how  brave  and  good  the 
child  was.  She  could  not  help  it,  although,  wise  woman 
that  she  was,  she  refrained  carefully,  in  most  ways,  from 
"  putting  things  in  his  head." 

"  I  knew  it  before,"  was  Rodney's  answer. 

Aunt  Euphrasia  concluded,  at  that,  in  her  own  mind, 
that  we  may  be  as  old  and  as  wise  as  we  please,  but  in 
some  things  the  young  people  are  before  us  ;  they  need 
very  little  of  our  "  putting  in  heads." 

"  Aunt  Effie,"  said  Rodney,  presently,  "  do  you  think 
I  have  been  a  very  great  good-for-nothing  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.     Why  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  certainly  haven't  been  good  for  much  ;  and 
I'm  not  sure  whether  I  could  be.  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  to  think  of  myself.  I  haven't  had  anything  to  do 
with  horses  this  winter  ;  I  sent  Red  Squirrel  off  into  the 
country.  What  is  the  reason,  Auntie,  that  if  a  fellow 
takes  to  horses,  they  all  think  he  is  going  straight  to  the 
bad  ?  What  is  -there  so  abominable  about  them  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Miss  Kirkbright.  "  On  the  contrary, 
everything  grand  and  splendid,  —  in  type,  —  you  know. 
Horses  are  powers  ;  men  are  made  to  handle  powers,  and 
to  use  them  ;  it  is  the  very  manliest  instinct  of  a  man  by 
which  he  loves  them.  Only,  he  is  terribly  mistaken  if  he 
stops  there,  —  playing  with  the  signs.  He  might  as  well 


A  LONG  CHAPTER   OF  A  WHOLE  YEAR.  107 

ride  a  stick,  or  drive  a  chair  with  worsted  reins,  as  the 
little  ones  do,  all  his  life." 

Rodney's  face  lit  straight  up  ;  but  for  a  whole  mile  he 
made  no  answer.  Then  he  said,  as"  people  do  after  a 
silence,  — 

"  How  quiet  we  are,  all  at  once  !  But  you  have  a  way 
of  finishing  up  things,  Aunt  Euphrasia.  You  said  all  I 
wanted  in  about  fifty  words,  just  now.  I  begin  to  see. 
It  may  be  just  because  I  might  do  something,  that  I 
haven't.  Aunt  Euphrasia,  I've  done  being  a  boy,  and 
playing  with  reins.  I'm  going  to  be  a  man,  and  do  some 
real  driving.  Do  you  know,  I  think  I'd  better  not  go  to 
Europe  with  my  father  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  returned  Miss  Kirkbright.  "  It 
might  be  ;  but  it  is  a  thing  to  consider  seriously,  before 
you  give  it  up.  You  ought  to  be  quite  sure  what  you 
stay  for." 

"  I  won't  stay  for  any  nonsense.  I  mean  to  talk  with 
him  to-night." 

"  Talk  with  yourself,  first,  Rod  ;  find  yourself  out,  and 
then  talk  it  all  out  honestly  with  him." 

Which  advice  —  the  first  clause  of  it  —  Rodney  pro 
ceeded  instantly  to  follow  ;  he  did  not  say  another  word 
all  the  way  over  the  Mill  Dam  and  up  Beacon  Hill,  and 
Aunt  Euphrasia  let  him  blessedly  alone ;  one  of  the  few 
women,  as  she  was,  capable  of  doing  that  great  and 
passive  thing. 

When  he  had  left  her  at  her  door,  and  driven  his  horse 
to  the  livery  stable,  he  went  round  to  his  father's  rooms 
and  took  tea  with  him. 

The  meal  over,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  saying,  "  I 
want  a  talk  with  you,  father.  Can  I  have  it  now  ?  I 
must  be  back  at  Cambridge  by  ten." 


108  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Mr.  Sherrett  looked  in  his  son's  face.  There  was  noth 
ing  there  of  uncomfortableness,  —  of  conscious  bracing  up 
to  a  difficult  matter.  He  repressed  his  first  instinctive 
inquiry  of  "No  scrape,  I  hope,  Rod  ? "  The  question 
was  asked  and  answered  between  their  eyes. 

"  Certainly,  my  boy,"  he  said,  rising.  "  Step  in  there ; 
the  man  will  be  up  presently  to  take  away  these  things." 

The  door  stood  open  to  an  inner  apartment ;  a  little 
study,  beyond  which  were  sleeping  and  bath-rooms. 

Rodney  stepped  upon  the  threshold,  leaning  against 
the  frame,  while  Mr.  Sherrett  went  to  the  mantel,  found 
a  match  and  a  cigar,  cut  the  latter  carefully  in  two,  and 
lit  one  half. 

"  The  thing  is,  father,"  said  Rodney,  not  waiting  for  a 
formal  beginning  after  they  should  be  closeted  and  seated, 
—  "  I've  been  thinking  that  I'd  better  not  go  abroad,  if 
you  don't  mind.  I'm  rather  waking  up  to  the  idea  of 
earning  my  own  way  first,  —  before  I  take  it.  It's  time 
I  was  doing  something.  If  I  use  up  a  year  or  more  in 
travelling,  I  shall  be  going  on  to  twenty-two,  you  see ; 
and  I  ought  to  have  got  ahead  a  little  by  that  time." 

Mr.  Sherrett  turned  round,  surprised.  This  was  a  new 
phase.  He  wondered  how  deep  it  went,  and  what  had 
occasioned  it. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  wish  to  study  a  profession,  after 
all  ?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  think  I've  much  of  a  •  head-piece  '  —  as 
Nurse  Pond  used  to  say.  At  least,  in  the  learned  direc 
tion.  I've  just  about  enough  to  do  for  a  gentleman,  —  a 
man,  I  hope.  But  I  should  like  to  take  hold  of  some 
thing  and  make  it  go.  I'll  tell  you  why,  father.  I  want 
to  see  what's  in  me  in  the  first  place  ;  and  then,  I  might 
want  something,  sometime,  that  I  should  have  no  right 
to  if  I  couldn't  take  care  of  myself  —  and  more." 


A   LONG   CHAPTER   OF  A  WHOLE   YEAR.  109 

"  Come  in,  Rodney,  and  shut  the  door." 

After  that,  of  course,  we  cannot  listen. 

They  two  sat  together  for  almost  two  hours.  In  that 
time,  Mr.  Sherrett  was  first  discomposed ;  then  set  right 
upon  one  or  two  little  points  that  had  puzzled  and  dis 
appointed  him,  and  to  which  his  son  could  furnish  the 
key  ;  then  thoroughly  roused  and  anxious  at  this  first 
dealing  with  his  boy  as  a  man,  with  all  a  man's  hopes 
and  wishes  quickening  him  to  a  serious  purpose  ;  at  last, 
touched  sympathetically,  as  a  good  father  must  be,  with 
the  very  desire  of  his  child,  and  the  fears  and  uncertain 
ties  that  may  environ  it.  What  he  suggested,  what  he 
proposed  and  promised,  what  was  partly  planned  to  be 
afterward  concluded  in  detail,  did  not  transpire  through 
that  heavy  closed  door  ;  neither  we,  nor  the  white-jack 
eted  serving-man,  can  be  at  this  moment  the  wiser.  It 
will  appear  hereafter.  When  they  came  out  together  at 
last,  Mr.  Sherrett  was  saying,  — 

a  Two  years,  remember.  Not  a  word  of  it,  decisively, 
till  then,  — for  both  your  sakes." 

"  Let  what  will  happen,  father  ?  You  don't  remember 
when  you  were  young." 

"  Don't  I  ? "  said  his  father,  with  emphasis,  and  a 
kindly  smile.  "  If  anything  happens,  come  to  me. 
Meanwhile,  —  you  may  talk,  if  you  like,  to  Aunt  Eu- 
phrasia.  I'll  trust  her." 

And  so  the  Lord  set  this  angel  of  his  to  watch  over  this 
thread  of  our  story. 

We  may  leave  it  here  for  a  while. 


1JO  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BEL   AND   BARTHOLOMEW. 

"  Kroo  !  kroo !  I've  cramp  in  my  legs, 
Sitting  so  long  atop  of  my  eggs ! 
Never  a  minute  for  rest  to  snatch; 
I  wonder  when  they  are  going  to  hatch ! 

"Cluck!  cluck!  listen!  tseep! 
Down  in  the  nest  there's  a  stir  and  a  peep. 
Everything  comes  to  its  luck  some  day ; 
I've  got  chickens !  What  will  folks  say  ?  " 

T)EL  BREE  made  that  rhyme.  It  came  into  her 
head  suddenly  one  morning,  sitting  in  her  little 
bedroom  window  that  looked  right  over  the  grass  yard 
into  the  open  barn-door,  where  the  hens  stalked  in  and 
out ;  and  one,  with  three  chickens,  was  at  that  minute 
airing  herself  and  her  family  that  had  just  come  out  of 
their  shells  into  the  world,  and  walked  about  already  as 
if  the  great  big  world  was  only  there,  just  as  they  had 
of  course  expected  it  to  be.  The  hen  was  the  most 
astonished.  She  was  just  old  enough  to  begin  to  be 
able  to  be  astonished.  Her  whole  mind  expressed  itsell 
in  that  proud  cluck,  and  pert,  excited  carriage.  She  had 
done  a  wonderful  thing,  and  she  didn't  know  how  she 
had  done  it.  Bel  "read  it  like  coarse  print,"  —  as  her 
step-mother  was  wont  to  say  of  her  own  perspicacities,  — 
and  put  it  into  jingle,  as  she  had  a  trick  of  doing  with 
things. 

Bel  Bree  lived  in  New  Hampshire ;  fifteen  miles  from 
a  railway  ;  in  the  curious  region  where  the  old  times  and 


BEL  AND  BARTHOLOMEW.  Ill 

the  new  touch  each  other  and  mix  up  ;  where  the  women 
use  towels,  and  table-cloths,  and  bed-spreads,  of  their 
mothers'  own  hand-weaving,  and  hem  their  new  ones 
with  sewing-machines  brought  by  travelling  agents  to 
their  doors  ;  where  the  men  mow  and  rake  their  fields 
with  modern  inventions,  but  only  get  their  newspapers 
once  a  week ;  where  the  "  help "  are  neighbors'  girls, 
who  wear  overskirts  and  high  hats,  and  sit  at  the  table 
with  the  family ;  where  there  are  rag  carpets  and 
"  painted  chamber-sets ;  "  where  they  feed  calves  and 
young  turkeys,  and  string  apples  to  dry  in  the  summer, 
and  make  wonderful  patchwork  quilts,  and  wax  flowers, 
and  worsted  work,  perhaps,  in  the  long  winters  ;  where 
they  go  to  church  and  to  sewing  societies  from  miles 
about,  over  tremendous  hills  and  pitches,  with  happy-go- 
lucky  wagons  and  harnesses  that  never  come  to  grief  ; 
where  they  have  few  schools  and  intermitted  teaching,  yet 
turn  out,  somehow,  young  men  who  work  their  way  into 
professions,  and  girls  who  take  the  world  by  instinct,  and 
understand  a  great  deal  perfectly  well  that  is  beyond 
their  practical  reach  ;  where  the  old  Puritan  stiffness 
keeps  them  straight,  but  gets  leavened  in  some  marvelous 
way  with  the  broader  and  more  generous  thought  of  the 
time,  and  wears  a  geniality  that  it  is  half  unconscious  of ; 
the  region  where,  if  you  are  lucky  enough  to  get  into  it 
to  know  it,  you  find  yourself,  as  Miss  Euphrasia  said, 
encouraged  and  put  in  heart  again  about  the  world. 
Things  are  so  genuine  ;  when  they  make  a  step  forward, 
they  are  really  there. 

But  Bel  Bree  was  not  very  happy  in  her  home,  though 
she  sat  at  the  window  and  made  rhymes  in  half  merry 
fashion  ;  though  she  loved  the  hills,  and  the  lights,  and 
the  shadows,  the  sweet-blossoming  springs  and  the  jew- 


112  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

eled  autumns,  the  sunsets,  and  the  great  rains,  that  set 
all  the  wild  little  waterfalls  prancing  and  calling  to  each 
other  among  the  ravines. 

Bel  had  two  lives  ;  one  that  she  lived  in  these  things, 
and  one  within  the  literal  and  prosaic  limit  of  the  farm 
house,  where  her  father,  as  farmers  must,  had  married  a 
smart  second  wife  to  "  look  after  matters." 

Not  that  Mrs.  Bree  ever  looked  after  anything :  noth 
ing  ever  got  ahead  of  her  ;  she  "  whewed  round  ;  "  when 
she  was  "  whewing,"  she  neither  wanted  Bell  to  hinder 
nor  help  ;  the  child  was  left  to  herself ;  to  her  idleness 
and  her  dreams  ;  then  she  neglected  something  that  she 
might  and  ought  to  have  done,  and  then  there  was. 
reproach,  and  hard  speech ;  partly  deserved,  but  running 
over  into  that  wherein  she  should  not  have  been  blamed, 
—  the  precinct  of  her  step-mother's  own  busy  and  self- 
arrogated  functions.  She  was  taunted  and  censured  for 
incapacity  in  that  to  which  she  was  not  admitted  ;  "  her 
mother  made  ten  cheeses  a  week,  and  flung  them  in  her 
face,"  she  said.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Bree  said  "  Bel 
hadn't  got  a  mite  of  snap  to  her."  One  might  say  that, 
perhaps,  of  an  electric  battery,  if  the  wrong  poles  were 
opposed.  Mrs.  Bree  had  not  found  out  where  the 
"  snap  "  lay  in  Bel's  character.  She  never  would  find 
out. 

Bel  longed,  as  human  creatures  who  are  discontent 
always  do,  to  get  away.  The  world  was  big ;  there 
must  be  better  things  somewhere. 

There  was  a  pathos  of  weariness,  and  an  inspiration  of 
hope,  in  her  little  rhyme  about  the  hen. 

Bel  was  named  for  her  Aunt  Belinda.  Miss  Belinda 
Bree  came  up  for  a  week,  sometimes,  in  the  summer,  to 
the  farm.  All  the  rest  of  the  year  she  worked  hard  in 


BEL  AND   BARTHOLOMEW.  113 

the  city.  She  put  a  good  face  upon  it  in  her  talk  among 
her  old  neighbors.  She  spoke  of  the  grand  streets,  the 
parades,  Duke's  balls,  —  for  which  she  made  dresses,  - 
and  jubilees,  of  which  she  heard  afar  off,  —  as  if  she 
were  part  and  parcel  of  all  Boston  enterprise  and  mag 
nificence.  It  was  a  great  thing,  truly,  to  live  in  the  Hub. 
Honestly,  she  had  not  got  over  it  since  she  came  there, 
a  raw  country  girl,  and  began  her  apprenticeship  to  its 
wonders  and  to  her  own  trade.  She  could  not  turn  a 
water  faucet,  nor  light  her  gas,  nor  count  the  strokes  of 
the  electric  fire  alarm,  without  feeling  the  grandeur  of 
having  Cochituate  turned  on  to  wash  her  hands,  —  of 
making  her  one  little  spark  of  the  grand  illumination 
under  which  the  Three  Hills  shone  every  night,— of 
dwelling  within  ear-shot  and  protection  of  the  quietly 
imposing  system  of  wires  and  bells  that  worked  by  light 
ning  against  a  fierce  element  of  daily  danger.  She  was 
proud  of  policemen  ;  she  was  thrilled  at  the  sound  of 
steam-engines  thundering  along  the  pavements ;  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  a  hand  in  it.  When  they  fired  guns  upon  the 
Common,  she  could  only  listen  and  look  out  of  windows  ; 
the  little  boys  ran  and  shouted  for  her  in  the  streets ; 
that  is  what  the  little  boys  are  for.  Somebody  must  do 
the  running  and  the  shouting  to  relieve  the  instincts  of 
older  and  busier  people,  who  must  pretend  as  if  they 
didn't  care. 

All  this  kept  Miss  Belinda  Bree  from  utterly  wearing 
out  at  her  dull  work  in  the  great  warerooms,  or  now  and 
then  at  clays'  seamstressing  in  families.  It  really  keeps  a 
great  many  people  from  wearing  out. 

Miss   Bree's  work  was  dull.     The  days  of  her  early 
"  mantua  making  "  were  over.     Twenty  years  had  made 
things  very  different  in    Boston.     The   "  nice  families " 
8 


114  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

had  been  more  quiet  then;  the  quietest  of  them  now 
cannot  manage  things  as  they  did  in  those  days  ;  for  the 
same  reason  that  you  cannot  buy  old-fashioned  "  wear 
ing  "  goods  ;  they  are  not  in  the  market.  *'  Sell  and 
wear  out ;  wear  out  and  sell ; "  that  is  the  principle  of 
to-day.  You  must  do  as  the  world  does  ;  there  is  no 
other  path  cut  through.  If  you  travel,  you  must  keep 
on  night  and  day,  or  wait  twenty-four  hours  and  start  in 
the  night  again. 

Nobody  —  or  scarcely  anybody  —  has  a  dress-maker 
now,  in  the  old,  cosy  way,  of  the  old,  cosy  sort,  staying  a 
week,  looking  over  the  wardrobes  of  the  whole  family, 
advising,  cutting,  altering,  remaking,  getting  into  ever  so 
much  household  interest  and  history  in  the  daily  chat,  and 
listening  over  daily  work :  sitting  at  the  same  table  ; 
linking  herself  in  with  things,  spring  and  fall,  as  the 
leaves  do  with  their  goings  and  comings ;  or  like  the 
equinoxes,  that  in  March  and  September  shut  about  us 
with  friendly  curtains  of  rain  for  days,  in  which  so  much 
can  be  done  in  the  big  up-stairs  room  with  a  cheerful  fire, 
that  is  devoted  to  the  rites  and  mysteries  of  scissors  and 
needle.  We  were  always  glad,  I  remember,  when  our 
dress-making  week  fell  in  with  the  equinoctial. 

But  now,  all  poor  Miss  Bree's  "  best  places "  had 
slipped  away  from  her,  and  her  Life  had  changed.  People 
go  to  great  outfitting  stores,  buy  their  goods,  have  them 
selves  measured,  and  leave  the  whole  thing  to  result  a 
week  afterward  in  a  big  box  sent  home  with  everything 
fitted  and  machined  and  finished,  with  the  last  inventions 
and  accumulations  of  frills,  tucks,  and  reduplications  ; 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  box  a  bill  tucked  and  redupli 
cated  in  the  same  modern  proportions. 

Miss  Bree  had  now  to  go  out,  like  any  other  machine 


BEL  AND  BARTHOLOMEW.  115 

girl,  to  the  warerooms  ;  except  when  she  took  home  par 
ticular  hand-work  of  button  holes  and  trimmings,  or 
occasionally  engaged  herself  for  two  or  three  days  to 
some  family  mother  who  could  not  pay  the  big  bills,  and 
who  ran  her  own  machine,  cut  her  own  basques  and  gores, 
and  hired  help  for  basting  and  finishing.  She  had  almost 
done  with  even  this ;  most  people  liked  young  help ; 
brisker  with  their  needles,  sewing  without  glasses,  nicer 
and  fresher  looking  to  have  about.  Poor  "  Aunt  Blin  " 
overheard  one  man  ask  his  wife  in  her  dressing-room 
before  dinner,  "  Why,  if  she  must  have  a  stitching- woman 
in  the  house,  she  could'nt  find  a  more  comfortable  one  to 
look  at ;  somebody  a  little  bright  and  cheerful  to  bring  to 
the  table,  instead  of  that  old  callariper  ?  " 

Miss  Bree  behaved  like  a  saint ;  it  was  not  the  lady's 
fault ;  she  resisted  the  temptation  to  a  sudden  headache 
and  declining  her  dinner,  for  fear  of  hurting  the  feelings 
of  her  employer,  who  had  always  been  kind  to  her ;  she 
would  not  let  her  suspect  or  be  afraid  that  the  speech 
had  come  to  her  ears ;  she  smoothed  her  thin  old  hair, 
took  off  her  glasses,  wiped  her  eyes  a  little,  washed  her 
hands,  and  went  down  when  she  was  called  ;  but  after 
that  day  she  "  left  off  going  out  to  work  for  families." 

The  warehouses  did  not  pay  her  very  well ;  neither 
there  was  she  able  to  compete  with  the  smart  young 
seamstresses  ;  she  only  got  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a  day, 
and  had  to  lodge  and  feed  herself ;  yet  she  kept  on  ;  it 
was  her  lot  and  living  ;  she  looked  out  at  her  third- story 
window  upon  the  roofs  and  spires,  listened  to  the  fire 
alarms,  heard  the  chimes  of  a  Sunday,  saw  carriages  roll 
by  and  well-dressed  people  moving  to  and  fro,  felt  the 
thrill  of  the  daily  bustle,  and  was,  after  all,  a  part  of  this 
great,  beautiful  Boston !  Strange  though  it  seem,  Miss 
Belinda  Bree  was  content. 


116  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

Content  enough  to  tell  charming  stories  of  it,  up  in  the 
country,  to  her  niece  Bel,  when  she  was  questioned  by  her. 

Of  her  room  all  to  herself,  so  warm  in  winter,  with  a 
red  carpet  (given  her  by  the  very  Mrs.  ^  Callariper  "  who 
could  not  help  a  misgiving,  after  all,  that  Miss  Bree's 
vocation  had  been  ended  with  that  wretched  word),  and 
a  coal  stove,  and  a  big,  splendid  brindled  gray  cat  — 
Bartholomew  —  lying  before  it ;  of  her  snug  little  house 
keeping,  with  kindlings  in  the  closet  drawer,  and  milk- 
jug  out  on  the  stone  window-sill ;  of  the  music-mistress 
who  had  the  room  below,  and  who  came  up  sometimes 
and  sat  an  hour  with  her,  and  took  her  cat  when  she 
came  away,  leaving  in  return,  in  her  own  absences,  her 
great  English  ivy  with  Miss  Bree.  Of  the  landlady  who 
lived  in  the  basement,  and  asked  them  all  down,  now  and 
then,  to  play  a  game  of  cassino  or  double  cribbage,  and 
eat  a  Welsh  rabbit :  of  things  outside  that  younger 
people  did,  —  the  girls  at  the  warerooms  and  their 
friends.  Of  Peck's  cheap  concerts,  and  the  Public  Li 
brary  books  to  read  on  holidays  and  Sundays ;  of  ten- 
cent  trips  down  the  harbor,  to  see  the  surf  on  Nantasket 
Beach  ;  of  the  brilliant  streets  and  shops  ;  of  the  Public 
Garden,  the  flowers  and  the  pond,  the  boats  and  the 
bridge  ;  of  the  great  bronze  Washington  reared  up  on  his 
horse  against  the  evening  sky ;  of  the  deep,  quiet  old 
avenues  of  the  Common ;  of  the  balloons  and  the  fire 
works  on  the  "  Fourth  of  Julies." 

I  do  not  think  she  did  it  to  entice  her  ;  I  do  not  think 
it  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  putting  anything  int<> 
Bel's  head ;  but  when  Bel  all  at  once  declared  that  she 
meant  to  go  to  Boston  herself  and  seek  her  fortune,  — 
do  machine-work  or  something,  —  Aunt  Blin  felt  a  sud 
den  thankful  delight,  and  got  a  glimpse  of  a  possible 


BEL  AND   BARTHOLOMEW.  117 

cheerfulness  coming  to  herself  that  she  had  never  dreamed 
of.  If  it  was  pleasant  to  tell  over  these  scraps  of  her 
small,  husbanded  enjoyments  to  Bel,  what  would  it  be  to 
have  her  there,  to  share  and  make  and  enlarge  them  ? 
To  bring  young  girls  home  sometimes  for  a  chat,  or  even 
a  cup  of  tea ;  to  fetch  books  from  the  library,  and  read 
them  aloud  of  a  winter  evening,  while  she  stitched  on  by 
the  gas-light  with  her  glasses  on  her  little  homely  old 
nose?  The  little  old  nose  radiated  the  concentrated  de 
light  of  the  whole  diminutive,  withered  face  ;  the  intense 
gleam  of  the  small,  pale  blue  eyes  that  "bent  themselves 
together  to  a  short  focus  above  it,  and  the  eagerness  of 
the  thin,  shrunken  lips  that  pursed  themselves  upward 
with  an  expression  that  was  keener  than  a  smile.  Bel 
laughed,  and  said  she  was  "  all  puckered  up  into  one 
little  admiration  point !  " 

After  that,  it  was  of  no  use  to  be  wise  and  to  make 
objections. 

"  I'll  take  you  right  in  with  me,  and  look  after  you,  if 
you  do  !  "  said  Miss  Bree.  "  And  two  together,  we  can 
housekeep  real  comfortable  !  " 

It  was  as  if  a  new  wave  of  youth,  from  the  far-retreated 
tide,  had  swept  back  upon  the  beach  sands  of  her  life, 
to  spend  its  sparkle  and  its  music  upon  the  sad,  dry 
level.  Every  little  pebble  of  circumstance  took  new  color 
under  its  touch.  Something  belonging  to  her  was  still 
young,  strong,  hopeful.  Bel  would  be  a  brightness  in  the 
whole  old  place.  The  middle-aged  music-mistress  would 
like  her,  —  perhaps  even  give  her  some  fragmentary  in 
struction  in  the  clippings  of  her  time.  Mrs.  Pimminy,  the 
landlady,  —  old  Mr.  Sparrow,  the  watch-maker,  who  went 
up  and  down  stairs  to  and  from  his  nest  under  the  eaves, 
—  the  milliner  in  the  second-floor-back,  —  why,  she  would 


118  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

make  friends  with  them  all,  like  the  sunshine !  There 
would  be  singing  in  the  house  !  The  middle-aged  music- 
mistress  did  not  sing,  —  only  played.  And  this  would 
be  her  doing,  —  her  bringing  ;  it  would  be  the  third-floor- 
front's  glory  !  The  pert  girls  at  the  wareroom  would 
not  snub  the  old  maid  any  more,  and  shove  her  into  the 
meanest  corner.  She  had  got  a  piece  of  girlhood  of  her 
own  again.  Let  them  just  see  Bel  Bree  —  that  was  all ! 

Yet  she  did  set  before  Bel,  conscientiously,  the  differ 
ence  between  the  free  country  home  and  the  close,  bricked 
up  city. 

"There  isn't  any  out-doors  there,  you  know  —  round 
the  houses  ;  home  out-doors  ;  you  have  to  be  dressed  up 
and  go  somewhere,  when  you  go  out.  The  streets  are 
splendid,  and  there's  lots  to  look  at ;  but  they're  only 
made  to  get  through,  you  know,  after  all." 

They  were  sitting,  while  she  spoke,  on  a  flat  stone  out 
under  the  old  elm-trees  between  the  "  fore-yard  "  and  the 
barn.  Up  above  was  great  blue  depth  into  which  you 
could  look  through  the  delicate  stems  and  flickering  leaves 
of  young  far  tips  of  branches.  One  little  white  cloud 
was  shining  down  upon  them  as  it  floated  in  the  sun. 
Away  off  swelled  billowy  tops  of  hills,  one  behind  another, 
making  you  feel  how  big  the  world  was.  That  was  what 
Bel  had  been  saying. 

"  You  feel  so  as  long  as  you  stay  here,"  replied  Miss 
Blin,  "  as  if  there  was  room  and  chance  for  everything 
4  over  the  hills  and  far  away.'  But  in  the  city  it  all 
crowds  up  together ;  it  gets  just  as  close  as  it  can,  and 
everybody  is  after  the  same  chances.  'Tain't  all  Fourth- 
of-July  ;  you  mustn't  think  it.  Milk's  ten  cents  a  quart, 
and  jest  as  blue!  Don't  you  'spose  you're  better  off  up 
here,  after  all  ?  Do  you  think  Mrs.  Bree  could  get  along 
without  you,  now  ?  " 


BEL  AND  BARTHOLOMEW.  119 

Bel  replied  most  irrelevantly.  She  sat  watching  the 
fowls  scratching  around  the  barn-door. 

"  How  different  a  rooster  scratches  from  a  hen  !  "  said 
she.  "  He  just  gives  one  kick,  —  out  smart,  —  and  picks 
up  what  he's  after  ;  she  makes  ever  so  many  little  scrab 
bles,  and  half  the  time  concludes  it  ain't  there !  -  -  What 
was  it  you  were  saying  ?  About  mother  ?  O,  she  don't 
want  me  !  The  trouble  is,  Aunt  Blin,  we  two  don't  want 
each  other,  and  never  did."  She  picked  up  a  straw  and 
bent  it  back  and  forth,  absently,  into  little  bits,  until  it 
broke.  Her  lips  curled  tremulously,  and  her  bright  eyes 
were  sad. 

Miss  Blin  knew  it  perfectly  well  without  being  told  ; 
but  she  wouldn't  have  pretended  that  she  did,  for  all  the 
world. 

"  O,  tut !  "  said  she.  "  You  get  along  well  enough. 
You  like  one  another  full  as  well  as  could  be  expected, 
only  you  ain't  constituted  similar,  that's  all.  She's  great 
for  turning  off,  and  going  ahead,  and  she  ain't  got  much 
patience.  Such  folks  never  has.  You  can't  be  smart 
and  easy  going  too.  'Tain't  possible.  She's  right-up-an'- 
a-comin',  and  she  expects  everybody  else  to  be.  But  you 
like  her,  Bel ;  you  know  you  do.  You  ain't  goin'  away 
for  that.  I  won't  have  it  that  you  are." 

"  I  like  her  —  yes  ; "  said  Bel,  slowly.  "  I  know  she's 
smart.  I  mean  to  like  her.  I  do  it  on  purpose.  But  I 
don't  love  her,  with  a  can't  help  it,  you  see.  I  feel  as  if 
I  ought  to  ;  I  want  to  have  my  heart  go  out  to  her  ;  but 
it  keeps  coming  back  again.  I  could  be  happy  with  you, 
Aunt  Blin,  in  your  up-stairs  room,  with  the  blue  milk 
out  in  the  window-sill.  There'd  be  room  enough  for  us  ; 
but  this  whole  farm  isn't  comfortable  for  Ma  and  me  !  " 

After  that,  Miss  Blin  only  said  that  she  would  speak 
to  Kellup  ;  meaning  her  brother,  Caleb  Bree. 


120  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

Caleb  Bree  was  just  the  sort  of  man  that  by  divine 
compensation  generally  marries,  or  gets  married  by  a 
woman  that  is  "  right-up-and-a-comin'."  He  "had  no 
objections,"  to  this  plan  of  Bel's,  I  mean;  perhaps  his 
favorite  phrase  would  have  expressed  his  strongest  feeling 
in  the  crisis  just  referred  to,  also  ;  it  was  a  normal  state 
of  mind  with  him  ;  he  had  gone  through  the  world,  thus 
far,  on  the  principle  of  not  "  having  objections."  He  had 
none  now,  "  if  Ma'am  hadn't,  and  Blin  saw  best."  He  let 
his  child  go  out  from  his  house  down  into  the  great,  un 
known,  struggling,  hustling,  devouring  city,  without  much 
thought  or  inquiry.  It  settled  that  point  in  his  family. 
"Bel  had  "gone  down  to  Boston  to  be  a  dress-maker,  'long 
of  her  Aunt  Blindy,"  was  what  he  had  to  say  to  his 
neighbors.  It  sounded  natural  and  satisfactory.  House 
holds  break  up  after  the  children  are  grown,  of  course ; 
they  all  settle  to  something  ;  that  is  all  it  comes  to  —  the 
child-life  out  of  which  if  they  had  died  and  gone  away, 
there  would  have  been  wailing  and  heart-breaking ;  the 
loving  and  tending  and  watching  through  cunning  ways 
and  helpless  prettiness  and  small  knowledge-getting  :  they 
turn  into  men  and  women,  and  they  go  out  into  the 
towns,  or  they  get  married,  even —  and  nobody  thinks, 
then,  that  the  little  children  are  dead  !  But  they  are : 
they  are  dead,  out  of  the  household,  and  they  never  come 
back  to  it  any  more. 

Caleb  Bree  let  Bel  go,  never  once  thinking  that  after 
this  she  never  could  come  back  the  same. 

Mrs.  Bree  had  her  own  two  children,  —  and  there  might 
be  more  —  that  would  claim  all  that  could  be  done  for 
them.  She  would  miss  Bel's  telling  them  stories,  and 
washing  their  faces,  and  carrying  them  off  into  the  barn 
or  the  orchard,  and  leaving  the  house  quiet  of  a  Sunday 


BEL  AND   BARTHOLOMEW.  121 

or  a  busy  baking-day.  It  had  been  "  all  Bel  was  good 
for  ; "  and  it  bad  been  more  tban  Mrs.  Bree  had  appreci 
ated  at  the  time.  Bel  cried  when  she  kissed  them  and 
bade  them  good-by ;  but  she  was  gone  ;  she  and  her  round 
leather  trunk  and  her  little  bird  in  its  cage  that  she  could 
not  leave  behind,  though  Aunt  Blin  did  say  that  "  she 
wouldn't  altogether  answer  for  it  with  Bartholomew." 

Bel  herself,  —  the  other  little  bird,  —  who  had  never 
tried  her  wings,  or  been  shut  up  in  strange  places  with 
fierce,  prowling  creatures,  —  she  could  answer  for  her,  she 
thought  1 

It  is  worth  telling,  —  the  advent  of  Bel  and  her  bird  in 
the  up-stairs  room  in  Leicester  Place,  and  what  came  of  it 
with  Bartholomew.  Miss  Blin  believed  very  much  in  her 
cat  with  the  apostolic  name,  though  she  had  never  tried 
his  principles  with  a  caged  bird.  She  had  tutored  him  to 
refrain  from  meat  and  milk  unless  they  were  set  down  for 
him  in  his  especial  corner  upon  the  hearth.  He  took  his 
airings  on  the  window-ledge  where  the  sun  slanted  in  of  a 
morning,  beside  the  very  brown  paper  parcel  in  which  was 
wrapped  the  mutton  chop  for  dinner ;  he  never  touched  the 
cheese  upon  the  table,  though  he  knew  the  word  "  cheese  " 
as  well  as  if  he  could  spell  it,  and  would  stand  up  tall  on 
his  hind  paws  to  receive  his  morsel  when  he  was  told, 
even  in  a  whisper,  and  without  a  movement,  that  he 
might  come  and  have  some.  He  preferred  his  milk  con 
densed  in  this  way ;  he  got  very  little  of  it  in  the  fluid 
form,  and  did  not  think  very  highly  of  it  when  he  did. 
He  knew  what  was  good,  Aunt  Blin  said. 

He  understood  conversation ;  especially  moral  lectures 
and  admonitions ;  Miss  Bree  had  talked  to  him  precisely 
as  if  he  had  a  soul,  for  five  years.  He  knew  when  she 
was  coming  back  at  one  o'clock  to  dinner,  or  at  nine  in  the 


122  -    THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

evening,  by  the  ringing  of  the  bells.  After  she  had  told 
him  so,  he  would  be  sitting  at  the  door,  watching  for  its 
opening,  from  the  instant  of  their  first  sound  until  she 
came  up-stairs. 

When  Aunt  Blin  thought  over  all  this  and  told  it  to 
Bel,  on  their  way  down  in  the  cars,  she  almost  persuaded 
her  niece  and  quite  convinced  herself,  that  Bartholomew 
could  be  dealt  with  on  principles  of  honor  and  confidence. 
They  would  not  attempt  to  keep  the  cage  out  of  his 
reach ;  that  would  be  almost  to  keep  it  out  of  their  own. 
She  would  talk  to  Bartholomew.  She  would  show  him 
the  bird,  and  make  him  understand  that  they  set  great 
store  by  it,  that  it  must  not  be  meddled  with  on  any  ac 
count.  "  Why,  he  never  offers  to  touch  my  tame  pigeon 
that  hops  in  on  the  table  to  eat  the  crumbs  !  " 

"  But  a  pigeon  is  pretty  big,  Aunt  Blin,"  Bel  answered, 
"  and  may  be  Bartholomew  suspects  that  it  is  old  and 
tough.  I  am  afraid  about  my  tiny,  tender  little  bird." 

Bel  was  charmed  with  Aunt  Blin's  room,  when  she 
opened  the  blinds  and  drew  up  the  colored  shades,  and 
let  the  street-light  in  until  she  could  find  her  matches  and 
light  the  gas.  It  was  just  after  dark  when  they  reached 
Leicester  Place.  The  little  lamp-lighter  ran  down  out  of 
the  court  with  his  ladder  as  they  turned  in.  There  were 
two  bright  lanterns  whose  flames  flared  in  the  wind ;  one 
just  opposite  their  windows,  and  one  below  at  the  livery 
stable.  There  was  a  big  livery  stable  at  the  bottom 
of  the  court,  built  right  across  the  end ;  and  there  was 
litter  about  the  doors,  and  horse  odor  in  the  air.  But 
that  is  not  the  very  worst  kind  of  city  smell  that  might 
be,  and  putting  up  with  that,  the  people  who  lived 
in  Leicester  Court  had  great  counterbalancing  advan 
tages.  There  was  only  one  side  to  the  place ;  and  though 


BEL   AND  BARTHOLOMEW.  123 

the  street  way  was  very  narrow,  the  opposite  walls 
shut  in  the  grounds  of  a  public  building,  where  there 
were  trees  and  grass,  and  above  which  there  was  really  a 
chance  at  the  sky.  Further  along,  at  the  corner,  loomed 
the  eight  stories  of  an  apartment  hotel.  All  up  and 
down  this  great  structure,  and  up  and  down  the  little 
three-storied  fronts  of  the  Court  as  well,  the  whole  place 
was  gay  with  illumination,  for  these  last  were  nearly  all 
lodging  houses,  and  at  night  at  least,  looked  brilliant  and 
grand ;  certainly  to  Bel  Bree's  eyes,  seeing  three-storied 
houses  and  gas-lights  for  the  first  time.  Inside,  at  num 
ber  eight,  the  one  little  gas  jet  revealed  presently  just 
what  Aunt  Blin  had  told  about :  the  scarlet  and  black 
three-ply  carpet  in  a  really  handsome  pattern  of  raised 
leaves ;  the  round  table  in  the  middle  with  a  red  cloth, 
and  the  square  one  in  the  corner  with  a  brown  linen  one  ; 
the  little  Parlor  Beauty  stove,  with  a  boiler  atop  and 
an  oven  in  the  side,  —  an  oval  braided  mat  before  it,  and 
a  mantel  shelf  above  with  some  vases  and  books  upon  it,  — 
all  the  books,  some  dozen  in  number,  that  Aunt  Blin  had 
ever  owned  in  the  whole  course  of  her  life.  One  of  the 
blue  vases  had  a  piece  broken  out  of  its  edge,  but  that 
was  turned  round  behind.  The  closets,  one  on  each  side 
of  the  fire-place,  answered  for  pantry,  china  closet,  store 
room,  wardrobe,  and  all.  The  refrigerator  was  out  on  the 
stone  window-sill  on  the  east  side.  The  room  had  corner 
windows,  the  house  standing  at  the  head  of  a  little  paved 
alley  that  ran  down  to  Hero  Street. 

"  There !  "  says  Aunt  Blin,  turning  up  the  gas  cheer 
ily,  and  dropping  her  shawl  upon  a  chair.  "  Now  I'll 
go  and  get  Bartholomew,  and  then  I'll  run  for  some 
muffins,  and  you  can  make  a  fire.  You  know  where  all 
the  things  are,  you  know  !  " 


124  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

That  was  the  way  she  made  Bel  welcome ;  treating 
her  at  once  as  part  and  parcel  of  everything. 

Down  stairs  ran  Aunt  Blin  ;  she  came  up  more  slowly, 
bringing  the  great  Bartholomew  in  her  arms,  and  tread 
ing  on  her  petticoats  all  the  way. 

Straight  up  to  the  square  table  she  walked,  where  Bel 
had  set  down  her  bird-cage,  with  the  newspaper  pinned 
over  it.  Aunt  Blin  pulled  the  paper  off  with  one  hand, 
holding  Bartholomew  fast  under  the  other  arm.  His  big 
head  stuck  out  before,  and  his  big  tail  .behind ;  both 
eager,  restless,  wondering,  in  port  and  aspect. 

"  Now,  Bartholomew,"  said  Aunt  Blin,  in  her  calmest, 
most  confident,  most  deliberate  tones,  "  see  here  !  We've 
brought  —  home  —  a  little  bird,  Bartholomew  I  " 

Bartholomew's  big  head  was  electric  with  feline  ex 
pression  ;  his  ears  stood  up,  his  eyes  sent  out  green 
sparks  ;  hair  and  whiskers  were  on  end  ;  he  devoured  poor 
little  Cheeps  already  with  his  gaze ;  his  tail  grew  huger, 
and  vibrated  in  great  sweeps. 

"  O  see,  Aunt  Blin  !  "  cried  Bel.  "  He's  just  ready  to 
spring.  He  don't  care  a  bit  for  what  you  say  !  " 

Aunt  Blin  gave  a  fresh  grip  with  her  elbow  against 
Bartholomew's  sides,  and  went  on  with  unabated  faith,  — 
unhurried  calmness. 

"  We  set  everything  by  that  little  bird,  Bartholomew  ! 
We  wouldn't  have  it  touched  for  all  the  world !  Don't  — 
you  —  never  —  go  —  near  it !  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

Bartholomew  heard.  Miss  Bree  could  not  see  his 
tail,  fairly  lashing  now,  behind  her  back,  nor  the  fierce 
eyes,  glowing  like  green  fire.  She  stroked  his  head,  and 
went  on  preaching. 

"  The  little  bird  sings,  Bartholomew !  You  can  hear 
it,  mornings,  while  you  eat  your  breakfast.  And  you 


BEL  AND   BARTHOLOMEW.  125 

shall  have  CHEESE  for  breakfast  as  long  as  you're  good, 
and  don't  —  touch  —  the  bird !  " 

"  O,  Aunt  Blin  !  He  will !  He  means  to  !  Don't  show 
it  to  him  any  more  !  Let  me  hang  it  way  up  high,  where 
he  cartt!" 

"  Don't  you  be  afraid.  He  understands  now,  that 
we're  precious  of  it.  Don't  you,  Bartholomew  ?  I  want 
him  to  get  used  to  it." 

And  Aunt  Blin  actually  set  the  cat  down,  and  turned 
round  to  take  up  her  shawl  again. 

Bartholomew  was  quiet  enough  for  a  minute  ;  he  must 
have  his  cat-pleasure  of  crouching  and  creeping  ;  he  must 
wait  till  nobody  looked.  He  knew  very  well  what  he 
was  about.  But  the  tail  trembled  still ;  the  green  eyes 
were  still  wild  and  eager. 

"  The  kindlings  are  in  the  left-hand  closet,  you  know," 
said  Aunt  Blin,  with  a  big  pin  in  her  mouth,  and  settling 
her  shoulders  into  her  shawl.  u  You'll  want  to  get  the 
fire  going  as  quick  as  you  can."* 

Poor  Bel  turned  away  with  a  fearful  misgiving  ;  not 
for  that  very  minute,  exactly  ;  she  hardly  supposed  Bar 
tholomew  would  go  straight  from  the  sermon  to  sin  ;  but 
for  the  resistance  of  evil  enticements  hereafter,  under  Miss 
Bree's  trustful  system,  —  though  he  walked  off  now  like  a 
deacon  after  a  benediction,  —  she  trembled  in  her  poor 
little  heart,  and  was  sorely  afraid  she  could  not  ever  come 
to  love  Aunt  Blin's  great  gray  pet  as  she  supposed  she 
ought. 

Aunt  Blin  had  not  fairly  reached  the  passage-way,  Bel 
had  just  emerged  from  the  closet  with  her  hands  full  of 
kindlings,  and  pushed  the  door  to  behind  her  with  her 
foot,  when  —  crash !  bang !  —  what  had  happened  ? 

A  Boston  earthquake  ?     The  room  was  full  of  a  great 


126  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

noise  and  scramble.  It  seemed  ever  so  long  before  Bel 
could  comprehend  and  turn  her  face  toward  the  centre 
of  it ;  a  second  of  time  has  infinitesimal  divisions,  all  of 
which  one  feels  and  measures  in  such  a  crisis.  Then  she 
and  Aunt  Blin  came  together  at  a  sharp  angle  of  inci 
dence  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  kindlings  scattered 
about  the  carpet ;  and  there  was  the  corollary  to  the 
exhortation.  The  overturned  cage,  —  the  dragged-off 
table-cloth,  —  the  clumsy  Bartholomew,  big  and  gray, 
bewildered,  yet  tenacious,  clinging  to  the  wires  and 
sprawling  all  over  them  on  one  side  with  his  fearful 
bulk,  and  the  tiny  green  and  golden  canary  flattened 
out  against  the  other  side  within,  absolutely  plane  and 
prone  with  the  mere  smite  of  terror. 

"  You  awful  wild  beast !  I  knew  you  didn't  mind !  " 
shrieked  Bel,  snatching  at  the  little  cage  from  which  Bar 
tholomew  dropped  discomfited,  and  chirping  to  Cheepsie 
with  a  vehemence  meant  to  be  reassuring,  but  failing  of 
its  tender  intent  through  frantic  indignation.  It  is  im 
possible  to  scold  and  chirp  at  once,  however  much  one 
may  want  to  do  it. 

"  You  dreadful  tiger  cat ! "  she  repeated.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  her  love  for  Aunt  Blin  let  loose  more  des 
perately  her  denunciations.  There  is  something  in 
human  nature  which  turns  most  passionately,  —  if  it 
does  turn,  —  upon  one's  very  own. 

"  I  can't  bear  you !  I  never  shall !  You're  a  horrid, 
monstrous,  abominable,  great,  gray  —  wolf !  I  knew  you 
were ! " 

Miss  Bree  fairly  gasped. 

When  she  got  breath,  she  said  slowly,  mournfully,  "  O, 
Bartholomew !  I  thought  I  could  have  trusted  you ! 
Was  you  a  murderer  in  your  heart  all  the  time  ?  Go 


BEL   AND    BARTHOLOMEW.  127 

away  !  I've  —  no  —  con  —  fidenjce  in  you  !  No  co  -  on  — 
fidence  in  you,  Bartholomew  Bree  !  " 

It  is  impossible  to  write  or  print  the  words  so  as  to 
suggest  their  grieved  abandonment  of  faith,  their  depth 
of  loving  condemnation. 

If  Bartholomew  had  been  a  human  being  !  But  he 
was  riot ;  he  was  only  a  great  gray  cat.  He  retreated, 
shamefaced  enough  for  the  moment,  under  the  table.  He 
knew  he  was  scolded  at ;  he  was  found  out  and  disap 
pointed  ;  but  there  was  no  heart-shame  in  him ;  he  would 
do  exactly  the  same  again.  As  to  being  trusted  or  not, 
what  did  he  care  about  that  ? 

"  I  don't  believe  you  do,"  said  Aunt  Blin,  thinking  it 
out  to  this  same  point,  as  she  watched  his  face  of  greed, 
mortified,  but  persistent ;  not  a  bit  changed  to  any  real 
humility.  Why  do  they  say  "  dogged"  except  for  a 
noble  holding  fast  ?  It  is  a  cat  which  is  selfishly,  stolidly 
obstinate. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  shall  really  like  you  any  more," 
said  Aunt  Blin,  with  a  terrible  mildness.  "  To  think  you 
would  have  ate  that  little  bird  !  " 

Aunt  Blin's  ideal  Bartholomew  was  no  more.  She 
might  give  the  creature  cheese,  but  she  could  not  give 
him  "  confidence." 

Bel  and  the  bird  illustrated  something  finer,  higher, 
sweeter  to  her  now.  Before,  there  had  only  been  Bar 
tholomew  ;  he  had  had  to  stand  for  everything ;  there 
was  a  good  deal,  to  be  sure,  in  that. 

But  Bel  was  so  astonished  at  the  sudden  change,  — 
it  was  so  funny  in  its  meek  manifestation,  —  that  she 
forgot  her  wrath,  and  laughed  outright. 

"  Why,  Auntie  !  "  she  cried.  "  Your  beautiful  Bar 
tholomew,  who  understood,  and  let  alone  !  " 

Aunt  Blin  shook  licv  head. 


128  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  thought  so.  But  —  I've  no —  con 
fidence  in  him !  You'd  tetter  hang  the  cage  up  high. 
And  I'll  go  out  for  the  muffins." 

Bel  heard  her  saying  it  over  again,  as  she  went  down 
the  stairs. 

"  No.     I've  no  —  confidence  in  him  !  " 


TO  HELP:  SOMEWHERE,  129 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

TO  HELP  :     SOMEWHERE. 

fTlHERE  was  an  administratrix's  notice  tacked  up  on 
the  great  elm-tree  by  the  Bank  deor,  in  Upper  Dor- 
bury  Village. 

All  indebted  to  the  estate  of  Joseph  Ingraham  were 
called  upon  to  make  payment,  —  and  all  having  demands 
against  the  same  to  present  accounts,  —  to  Abigail  S.  In- 
graham. 

The  bakery  was  shut  up.  The  shop  and  house-blinds 
were  closed  upon  the  street.  The  bright  little  garden  at 
the  back  was  gay  with  summer  color  ;  roses,  geraniums, 
balsams,  candytuft ;  crimson  and  purple,  and  white  and 
scarlet  flashed  up  everywhere.  But  Mrs.  Ingraham  had 
on  a  plain  muslin  cap,  instead  of  a  ribboned  one  such  as 
she  was  used  to  wear ;  and  Dot  was  in  a  black  calico 
dress ;  they  sat  in  the  kitchen  window  together,  ripping 
up  some  breadths  of  faded  cloth  that  they  were  going  to 
send  to  the  dye-house.  Ray  was  in  the  front  room,  look 
ing  over  papers.  Mrs.  Ingraham's  name  appeared  in  the 
notices,  but  Ray  really  did  the  work,  all  except  the  sign 
ing  of  the  necessary  documents. 

Everything  was  very  different  here,  the  moment  Joseph 
Ingraham's  breath  was  gone  from  his  body.  Everything 
that  had  stood  in  his  name  stood  now  in  the  namexof  an 
"  estate."  Large  or  small,  an  estate  has  always  to  be 
settled.  There  had  been  a  man  already  applying  to  buy 
out  the  remainder  of  the  bakery  lease,  —  house  and  all. 
He  was  ready  to  take  it  for  eight  years,  including  the  one 


130  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

it  had  yet  to  run  in  the  present  occupancy ;  he  would  pay 
them  a  considerable  bonus  for  relinquishing  this  and  the 
goodwill. 

Ray  had  stood  at  the  helm  and  brought  the  vessel  to 
port ;  that  was  different  from  undertaking  another  voy 
age.  She  did  not  see  that  she  had  any  right  to  hazard 
her  mother's  and  sister's  little  means,  and  incur  further 
risks  which  she  had  not  actual  capital  to  meet,  for  the 
ambition,  or  even  possible  gain,  of  carrying  on  a  business. 
She  understood  it  perfectly  ;  she  could  have  done  it ;  she 
could,  perhaps,  have  worked  out  some  of  her  own  new 
ideas  ;  if  she  and  Dot  had  been  brothers,  instead  of  sis 
ters,  it  would  very  likely  have  been  what  they  would 
have  done.  There  was  enough  to  pay  all  debts  and  leave 
them  upwards  of  a  thousand  dollars  apiece.  But  Ray 
sat  down  and  thought  it  all  over.  She  remembered  that 
they  were  women,  and  she  saw  how  that  made  all  the 
difference. 

"  Suppose  either  of  us  should  wish  to  marry  ?  Dot 
might,  at  any  rate." 

That  was  the  way  she  said  it  to  herself.  She  really 
thought  of  Dot  especially  and  first ;  for  it  would  be  her 
doing  if  her  sister  were  bound  and  hampered  in  any  way  ; 
and  even  though  Dot  were  willing,  could  she  see  clear  to 
decide  upon  an  undertaking  that  would  involve  the  seven 
best  years  of  the  child's  life,  in  which  "  who  knew  what 
might  happen  ?  " 

She  did  not  look  straight  in  the  face  her  own  possibil 
ities,  yet  she  said  simply  in  her  own  mind,  "  A  woman 
ought  to  leave  room  for  that.  It  might  be  cheating  some 
one  else,  as  well  as  herself,  if  she  didn't.".  And  she  saw 
very  well  that  a  woman  could  not  marry  and  assume 
family  ties,  with  a  seven  years'  lease  of  a  bakehouse  and 


TO  HELP  :   SOMEWHERE. 


a  seven  years'  business  on  her  hands.  "  Why  —  he  might 
be  a  —  anything,"  was  the  odd  little  wording  with  which 
she  mentally  exclaimed  at  this  point  of  her  considerations. 
And  if  he  were  anything,  —  anything  of  a  man,  and 
doing  anything  in  the  world  as  a  man  does,  —  what  would 
they  do  with  two  businesses  ?  The  whole  vexed  question 
solved  itself  to  her  mind  in  this  home-fashion.  "  It  isn't 
natural  ;  there  never  will  be  much  of  it  in  the  world," 
she  said.  "  Young  women,  with  their  real  .womanhood 
in  them,  won't  ;  and  by  the  time  they've  lived  on  and 
found  out,  the  chances  will  be  over.  To  do  business  as  a 
man  does,  you  must  choose  as  a  man  doe^,  —  for  your 
whole  life,  at  the  beginning  of  it." 

Ray  Ingraham,  with  all  her  capacity  and  courage,  at 
this  turning-point  where  choice  was  given  her,  and  duty 
no  longer  showed  her  one  inevitable  way,  chose  deliber 
ately  to  be  a  woman.  She  took  up  a  woman's  lot,  with 
all  its  uncertainty  and  disadvantage  ;  the  lot  of  working 
for  others. 

"  I  can  find  something  simply  to  do  and  to  be  paid  for  ; 
that  will  be  safe  and  faithful  ;  that  will  leave  room." 

She  said  something  like  that  to  Frank  Sunderline, 
when  he  sat  talking  with  her  over  some  building  accounts 
one  evening. 

He  had  come  in  as  a  friend  and  had  helped  them  in 
many  little  ways  ;  beside  having  especial  occasion  in  this 
matter,  as  representing  his  own  employer  who  held  a 
small  demand  against  the  estate. 

"  I  am  too  young,"  she  told  him.  "  Dot  is  too  young. 
I  should  feel  as  if  I  must  have  her  with  me  if  I  kept  on, 
and  we  should  need  to  keep  all  the  little  money  together. 
How  can  I  tell  what  Dot  —  how  can  I  tell  what  either 
of  us"—  she  changed  her  word  with  brave  honesty, 


132  THE   OTHER   GIELS. 

"  might  have  a  wish  for,  before  seven  years  were  over  ? 
If  I  were  forty  years  old,  and  could  do  it,  I  would ;  I 
would  take  girls  for  journeymen,  —  girls  who  wanted 
work  and  pay  ;  then  they  would  be  brought  up  to  a  very 
good  business  for  women,  if  they  came  to  want  business  ; 
and  they  would  be  free,  while  they  were  girls,  for  happier 
things  that  might  happen." 

"  That  is  good  Woman's  Rights  doctrine ;  it  doesn't 
leave  out  the  best  right  of  all." 

"  A  woman  can't  shape  out  her  life  all  beforehand,  as  a 
man  can ;  she  can't  be  sure,  you  see ;  and  nobody  else 
could  feel  sure  about  her.  I  suppose  that  is  what  has 
kept  women  out  of  the  real  business  world,  —  the  order 
ing  and  heading  of  things.  But  they  can  help.  I'm 
willing  to  help,  somehow ;  and  I  guess  the  world  will  let 
me." 

There  was  something  that  went  straight  to  Frank  S un 
derline's  deepest,  unspoken  apprehension  of  most  beau 
tiful  things,  in  Ray  Ingraham's  aspect  as  she  said  these 
words.  The  man  in  him  suddenly  perceived,  though 
vaguely,  something  of  what  God  meant  when  He  made 
the  woman.  Power  shone  through  the  beauty  in  her 
face  ;  but  power  ready  to  lay  itself  aside  ;  ready  to  help, 
not  lead.  Made  the  most  tender,  because  most  perfect 
outcome  and  blossom  of  humanity,  woman  accepts  her 
conditions,  as  God  Himself  accepts  his  own,  when  He 
hides  Himself  away  under  limitations,  that  the  secret  force 
may  lie  ready  to  the  work  man  thinks  he  does  upon  the 
earth  and  with  it.  In  dumb,  waiting  nature,  his  own 
very  Self  bides  subject ;  yes,  and  in  the  things  of  the 
Spirit,  He  gives  his  Son  in  the  likeness  of  a  servant.  He 
lays  help  upon  him  ;  He  lays  help  for  man  upon  the 
woman.  He  took  her  nearest  to  Himself  when  He  made 


TO  HELP  :    SOMEWHERE.  133 

her  to  be  a  help  meet  in  all  things  to  his  Adam-child. 

To  "  help  "  is  to  do  the  work  of  the  world. 

Ray's  face  shone  with  the  splendor  of  self -forgetting, 
when  she  said  that  she  would  "help,  somewhere." 

What  made  him  suddenly  think  of  his  own  work? 
What  made  him  say,  with  a  flash  in  his  eyes,  — 

"  I've  got  a  job  of  my  own,  Ray,  at  last.  Did  you 
•know  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  very  glad,"  said  Ray,  earnestly.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  A  house  at  Pomantic.  Rather  a  shoddy  kind  of 
house, — flashy,  I  mean,  and  ridiculously  grand ;  but  .it's 
work  ;  and  somebody  has  to  build  all  sorts,  you  know. 
When  I  build  my  house  —  well,  never  mind  !  Holder 
has  put  this  contract  right  into  my  hands  to  carry  out. 
He'll  step  over  and  look  round,  once  in  a  while,  but  I'm 
to  have  the  care  of  it  straight  through, — stock,  work,  and 
all;  and  I'm  to  have  half  the  profits.  Isn't  that  high  of 
Holder?  He  has  his  hands  full,  you  know,  at  River 
Point.  There's  no  end  of  building  there,  this  year  a 
whole  street  going  up  —  with  Mansard  roofs,  of  course. 
Everything  is  going  into  this  house  that  can  go  into  a 
house  ;  and  to  see  that  it  gets  in  right  will  be  —  practice, 
anyhow." 

S underline  chattered  on  like  a  boy  ;  almost  like  a  girl ; 
telling  Ray  what  he  was  so  glad  of.  And  Ray  listened, 
her  cheek  glowing  ;  she  was  so  glad  to  be  told. 

He  had  not  said  a  word  of  this  to  Marion  Kent  that 
afternoon,  when  she  had  stopped  him  at  her  window, 
going  by.  He  had  stood  there  a  few  minutes,  leaning 
against  the  white  fence,  and  looking  across  the  little  door- 
yard,  to  answer  the  questions  she  asked  him  ;  about  the 
Ingrahams,  the  questions  were ;  but  he  did  not  offer  to 
come  nearer. 


134  THE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Marion  was  sewing  on  a  rich  silk  dress,  sea-green  in 
color ;  it  glistened  as  she  shifted  it  with  busy  fingers 
tinder  the  light ;  it  contrasted  exquisitely  with  her  fair, 
splendid  hair,  and  the  cream  and  rose  of  her  full  blonde 
complexion.  It  was  a  "platform  dress,"  she  told  him, 
laughing  ;  she  was  going  with  the  Leverings  on  a  reading 
and  musical  tour ;  they  had  got  a  little  company  together, 
and  would  give  entertainments  in  the  large  country 
towns  ;  perhaps  go  to  some  of  the  fashionable  springs, 
or  up  among  the  mountain  places ;  folks  liked  their 
amusements  to  come  after  them,  from  the  cities  ;  they 
were  sure  of  audiences  where  people  had  nothing  to  do. 

Marion  was  in  high  spirits.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  the 
world  before  her.  She  would  travel,  at  any  rate ; 
whether  there  were  anything  else  left  of  it  or  not,  she 
would  have  had  that ;  .  that,  and  the  sea-green  dress. 
While  she  talked,  her  mother  was  ironing  in  the  back 
room.  The  dress  was  owed  for.  She  could  not  pay  for 
it  till  she  began  to  get  her  own  pay. 

What  was  the  use  of  telling  a  girl  like  that  —  all 
flushed  with  beauty  and  vanity,  and  gay  expectation  — 
abo.ut  his  having  a  house  to  build  ?  What  would  it  seem 
to  her,  —  his  busy  life  all  spring  and  summer  among  the 
chips  and  shavings,  hammering,  planing,  fitting,  chisel 
ing,  buying  screws,  and  nails,  and  patent  fastenings,  tiles 
and  pipes  ;  contriving  and  hurrying,  working  out  with 
painstaking  in  laborious  detail  an  agreement,  that  a  new 
rich  man  might  get  into  his  new  rich  house  by  October  ? 
When  she  had  only  to  make  herself  lovely  and  step  out 
among  the  lights  before  a  gay  assembly,  to  be  applauded 
and  boqueted,  to  be  stared  at  and  followed ;  to  live  in  a 
dream,  and  call  it  her  profession  ?  When  Frank  Sunder- 
line  knew  there  was  nothing  real  in  it  all ;  nothing  that 


TO  HELP  :    SOMEWHERE.  135 

would  stand,  or  remain  ;  only  her  youth,  and  prettiness, 
and  forwardness,  and  the  facility  of  people  away  from 
home  and  in  by-places  to  be  amused  with  second-rate 
amusement,  as  they  manage  to  feed  on  second-rate  fare  ? 
It  was  no  use  to  say  this  to  her,  either  ;  to  warn  her, 
as  he  had  done  before.  She  must  wear  out  her  illusions, 
as  she  would  wear  out  her  glistening  silk  dress.  He  must 
leave  her  now,  with  the  shimmer  of  them  all  about  her 
imagination,  bewildering  it,  as  the  lovely,  lustrous  heap 
upon  her  lap  threw  a  bewilderment  about  her  own  very 
face  and  figure,  and  made  it  for  the  moment  beautiful 
with  all  enticing,  outward  complement  and  suggestion. 

He  told  Kay  In  graham  ;  and  he  said  what  a  pity  it 
was  ;  what  a  mistake. 

Ray  did  not  answer  for  a  minute  ;  she  had  a  little 
struggle  with  herself ;  a  little  fight  with  that  in  her 
heart  which  made  itself  manifest  to  her  in  a  single  quick 
leap  of  its  pulses. 

Was  she  glad?  Glad  that  Marion  Kent  was  living 
out,  perversely,  this  poor  side  of  her  —  making  a  mis 
take  ?  Losing,  perhaps,  so  much  ? 

"  Marion  has  something  better  in  her  than  that,"  she 
made  herself  say,  when  she  replied.  "  Perhaps  it  will 
come  out  again,  some  day." 

"  I  think  she  has.  Perhaps  it  will.  You  have  always 
been  good  and  generous  to  her,  Ray." 

What  did  he  say  that  for  ?  Why  did  he  make  it  im 
possible  for  her  to  let  it  go  so  ? 

"  Don't !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  am  not  generous  to  her 
this  minute !  I  couldn't  help,  when  you  said  it,  being 
satisfied  —  that  you  should  see.  I  don't  know  whether 
it  is  mean  or  true  in  me,  that  I  always  do  want  people 
to  see  the  truth." 


136  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

She  covered  it  up  with  that  last  sentence.  The  first, 
left  by  itself,  might  have  shown  him  more.  It  was  cer 
tainly  so  ;  that  there  was  a  little  severity  in  Ray  Ingra- 
ham,  growing  out  of  her  clear  perception  and  her  very 
honesty.  When  she  could  see  a  thing,  it  seemed  as  if 
everybody  ought  to  see  it ;  if  they  did  not,  as  if  she 
ought  to  show  them,  that  they  might  fairly  understand. 
A  half  understanding  made  her  restless,  even  though  the 
other  half  were  less  kind  and  comfortable. 

"  You  show  the  truth  of  yourself,  too,"  said  Frank. 
"  And  that  is  grand,  at  any  rate." 

"  You  need  not  praise  me,"  said  Ray,  almost  coldly. 
"  It  is  impossible  to  be  quite  true,  I  think.  The  nearer 
you  try  to  come  to  it,  the  more  you  can't"  —  and  then 
she  stopped. 

"  How  many  changes  there  have  been  among  us  !  "  she 
began  again,  suddenly,  at  quite  a  different  point.  "  All 
through  the  village  there  have  been  things  happening,  in 
this  last  year.  Nobody  is  at  all  as  they  were  a  year  ago. 
And  another  year"  — 

"  Will  tell  another  year's  story,  "  said  Frank  Sunder- 
line.  "  Don't  you  like  to  think  of  that  sometimes  ?  That 
the  story  isn't  done,  ever  ?  That  there  is  always  more 
to  tell,  on  and  on  ?  And  that  means  more  to  do.  We 
are  all  making  a  piece  of  it.  If  we  stayed  right  still,  you 
see,  —  why,  the  Lord  might  as  well  shut  up  the  book  !  " 

He  was  full  of  life,  this  young  man,  and  full  of  the 
delight  of  living.  There  was  something  in  his  calling 

o  o  o  o 

that  made  him  rejoice  in  a  confident  strength.  He  was 
born  to  handle  tools  ;  hammer  and  chisel  were  as  parts  of 
him.  He  builded  ;  he  believed  in  building ;  in  something 
coming  of  every  stroke.  Real  work  disposes  and  quali 
fies  a  man  to  believe  in  a  real  destiny,  —  a  real  God.  A 


TO  HELP  :    SOMEWHERE.  137 

carpenter  can  see  that  nails  are  never  driven  for  nothing. 
It  is  the  sham  work,  perhaps,  of  our  day,  that  shakes 
faith  in  purpose  and  unity  ;  a  scrambling,  shifty  living  of 
men's  own,  that  makes  to  their  sight  a  chance  huddle  and 
phantasm  of  creation. 

Mrs.  Ingraham  came  down  into  the  room  where  they 
were,  at  this  moment,  and  Dot  presently  followed.  They 
began  to  talk  of  their  plans.  They  were  going,  now,  to 
live  with  the  grandmother  in  Boston,  in  Pilgrim  Street. 

It  was  a  comfortable,  plain  old  house,  in  a  little  strip 
of  neighborhood  long  since  left  of  fashion,  and  not  yet 
demanded  of  business  ;  so  Mrs.  Rhynde  could  afford  to 
occupy  it.  She  had  used,  for  many  years,  to  let  out  a 
part  of  her  rooms,  —  these  that  the  Ingrahams  would 
take,  —  in  a  tenement,  as  people  used  to  say,  making  no 
ambitious  distinctions  ;  now,  it  might  be  spoken  of  as 
"  a  flat,  "or  "  apartments."  Everything  is  "  apart 
ments  "  that  is  more  than  a  foothold. 

The  rooms  were  large,  but  low.  At  the  back,  they 
were  sunny  and  airy ;  they  looked  through,  overlapping 
a  court- way,  into  Providence  Square.  It  was  a  real  old 
Boston  homestead,  of  which  so  few  remain.  There  were 
corner  beams  and  wainscots,  some  tiled  chimney-pieces, 
even.  It  made  you  think  of  the  pre-Revolutionary  days  ; 
of  tea-drinkings,  before  the  tea  was  thrown  overboard 
The  step  into  the  front  passage  was  a  step  down  from 
the  street. 

Ray  and  Dot  told  these  things ;  beguiled  into  reminis 
cences  of  pleasant  childish  visiting  days  ;  Ray,  of  long 
domestication  in  still  later  years.  It  would  be  a  going 
home,  after  all. 

Leicester  Place  was  only  a  stone's  throw  from  Pilgrim 
Street.  From  old  Mr.  Sparrow's  attic  window,  you 


138  THE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

could  look  across  to  the  Pilgrim  Street  roofs,  and  see 
women  hanging  out  clothes  there  upon  the  flat  tops  of 
one  or  two  of  the  houses.  But  what  of  that,  in  a  great 
city  ?  Will  the  Ingrahams  ever  come  across  Aunt  Blin 
and  bright  little  Bel  Bree  ? 

In  the  book  that  binds  up  this  story,  there  is  but  the 
turn  of  a  leaf  between  them.  A  great  many  of  us  may 
be  as  near  as  that  to  each  other  in  the  telling  of  the 
world's  story,  who  never  get  the  leaf  turned  over,  or 
between  whom  the  chapters  are  divided,  with  never  a 
connecting  word. 

The  Ingrahams  moved  into  Boston  in  the  early  sum 
mer.  It  was  July  when  Bel  came  down  from  the  hill- 
country  with  Aunt  Blin. 


INHERITANCE.  139 

CHAPTER  IX. 

INHEEITANCE. 

DO  you  remember  somebody  else  who  lives  in  Boston  ? 
Have  you  heard  o£  the  old  house  in  Greenley  Street, 
and  Uncle  Titus  Oldways,  and  Desire  Ledwith,  who  came 
home  with  him  after  her  mother  and  sisters  went  off  to 
Europe,  and  something  had  touched  her  young  life  that 
had  left  for  a  while  an  ache  after  it  ?  Do  you  know 
Rachel  Froke,  and  the  little  gray  parlor,  and  the  ferns, 
and  the  ivies,  and  the  canary,  —  and  the  old,  dusty 
library,  with  its  tall,  ^crowded  shelves,  and  the  square 
table  in  the  midst,  where  Uncle  Oldways  sat  ?  All  is 
there  still,  except  Uncle  Oldways.  The  very  year  that 
had  been  so  busy  elsewhere,  with  its  rushing  minutes 
that  clashed  out  events  and  changes  as  moving  atoms 
clash  out  heat  —  that  had  brought  to  pass  all  that  it  has 
taken  more  than  a  hundred  pages  for  me  to  tell,  —  that 
had  drawn  toward  one  centre  and  focus,  whither,  as  into 
a  great  whirling  maelstrom  of  life,  so  many  human  affairs 
and  interests  are  continually  drifting,  the  far-apart  per 
sons  that  were  to  be  the  persons  of  one  little  history,  — 
this  same  year  had  lifted  Uncle  Titus  up.  Out  of  his  old 
age,  out  of  his  old  house,  —  out  from  among  his  books, 
where  he  thought  and  questioned  and  studied,  into  the 
youth  and  vigor  to  which,  underneath  the  years,  he  had 
been  growing  ;  into  the  knowledges  that  lie  behind  and 
beyond  all  books  and  Scriptures  ;  into  the  house  not  made 
with  hands,  the  Innermost,  the  Divine.  Not  away  ;  I  do 
'not  believe  that.  Lifted  up,  in  the  life  of  the  spirit,  is 
only  taken  within. 


140  THE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

Outside,  — just  a  little  outside,  for  she  loved  him,  and 
her  life  had  grown  into  his  and  into  his  home,  —  Desire 
remained,  in  this  home  that  he  had  given  her. 

People  talked  about  her,  eagerly,  curiously.  They  said 
she  was  a  great  heiress.  Her  mother  and  Mrs.  Megilp 
had  written  letters  to  her  overflowing  with  a  mixture  of 
sentiment  and  congratulation,  condolence  and  delight. 
They  wanted  her  to  come  abroad  at  once,  now,  and  join 
them.  What  was  there,  any  longer,  to  prevent  ? 

Desire  wrote  back  to  them  that  she  did  not  think  they 
understood.  There  was  no  break,  she  said;  there  was 
to  be  no  beginning  again.  She  had  come  into  Uncle  Ti 
tus' s  living  with  him  ;  he  had  let  her  do  that,  and  he  had 
made  it  so  that  she  could  stay.  She  was  not  going  to 
leave  him  now.  She  would  as  soon  have  robbed  him  of 
his  money  and  run  away,  while  the  handling  of  his 
money  had  been  his  own.  It  was  but  mere  handling 
that  made  the  difference.  Himself  was  not  dependent 
on  his  breath.  And  it  was  himself  that  she  was  joined 
with.  "  How  can  people  turn  their  backs  on  people  so  ?  " 
She  broke  off  with  that,  in  her  old,  odd,  abrupt,  blindly 
significant  fashion. 

No  :  they  could  not  understand.  "  Desire  was  just 
queerer  than  ever,"  they  said.  "  It  was  such  a  pity,  at 
her  age.  What  would  she  be  if  she  lived  to  be  as  old  as 
Uncle  Titus  himself?"  Mrs.  Megilp  sighed,  long-suffer 
ingly. 

Mrs.  Froke  lived  on  in  the  gray  parlor  ;  Hazel  Rip  wink- 
ley  ran  in  and  out ;  -  she  hardly  knew  which  was  most 
home  now,  Greeiiley  or  Aspen  Street.  She  and  Desire 
were  together  in  everything ;  in  the  bakery  and  laundry 
and  industrial  asylum  that  Luclarion  Grapp's  missionary 
work  was  taking  shape  in ;  in  Chapel  classes  and  teachers' 


INHERITANCE.  141 

meetings ;  in  a  Wednesday  evening  Read-and-Talk,  as 
they  called  it,  that  they  had  gathered  some  dozen  girls 
and  young  women  into,  for  which  the  dear  old  library  was 
open  weekly  ;  in  walks  to  and  fro  about  the  city  "  on  er 
rands  ;  "  in  long  plans  and  consultations,  now,  since  so 
much  power  had  been  laid  on  their  young  heads  and 
hands. 

Uncle  Oldways  had  made  "  the  strangest  will  that  ever 
was,"  if  that  were  not  said  almost  daily  of  men's  last 
disposals.  Out  of  the  two  sister's  families,  the  Ripwink- 
leys  and  the  Ledwiths,  he  had  chosen  these  two  girls,  — 
children  almost, — whom  he  declared  his  "  next  of  kin,  in  a 
sense  that  the  Lord  and  they  would  know  ; "  and  to  them 
he  left,  in  not  quite  equal  shares,  the  bulk  of  his  large 
property;  the  income  of  each  portion  to  be  severally 
theirs,  —  Desire's  without  restriction,  Hazel's  under  her 
mother's  guardianship,  until  each  should  come  to  the  age 
of  twenty-five  years.  If  either  of  the  two  should  die 
before  that  age,  her  share  should  devolve  upon  the  other ; 
if  neither  should  survive  it,  —  then  followed  a  division 
among  persons  and  charities,  such,  as  he  said,  with  his 
best  knowledge,  and  the  Lord's  help,  he  felt  himself  at 
the  moment  of  devising  moved  to  direct.  At  twenty-five 
he  counseled  each  heir  to  make,  promptly,  her  own  legal 
testament,  searching,  meanwhile,  by  the  light  given  her 
in  the  doing  of  her  duty,  for  whom  or  whatsoever  should 
be  shown  her  to  be  truly,  and  of  the  will  of  God  —  not 
man,  her  own  "  next  of  kin." 

"  For  needful  human  form,"  he  said,  in  conclusion,  "  I 
name  Frances  Ripwinkley  executrix  of  this  my  will ;  but 
the  Lord  Himself  shall  be  executor,  above  and  through 
all;  may  He  give  unto  you  a  right  judgment  in  all 
things,  and  keep  us  evermore  in  his  holy  comfort  1  " 


142  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Some  people  even  laughed  at  such  a  document  as  this, 
made  as  if  the  Almighty  really  had  to  do  with  things, 
and  were  surer  than  trustees  and  cunning  law-conditions. 

"  Two  girls  !  "  they  said,  "  who  will  marry  —  the  Lord 
knows  whom  —  and  do,  the  Lord  knows  what,  with  it 
all!" 

Th  ut  was  exactly  what  Titus  Old  ways  believed.  He 
believed  the  Lord  did  know.  He  had  shown  him  part ; 
enough  to  go  by  to  the  end  of  his  beat ;  the  rest  was  his. 
"  Everything  escheats  to  the  King,  at  last." 

And  so  Desire  Ledwith  and  Hazel  Ripwinkley  sat  in 
the  old  house  together,  and  made  their  pure,  young,  gen 
erous  plans  ;  so  they  went  in  and  out,  and  did  their  work, 
blessedly  ;  and  Uncle  Titus 's  arm-chair  stood  there,  where 
it  always  had,  at  the  library  table  ;  and  the  Book  of  the 
Gospels,  with  its  silver  cross,  lay  in  its  silken  cover  where 
it  always  lay;  and  nothing  had  gone  but  the  bent  old 
form  from  which  the  strength  had  risen  and  the  real  pres 
ence  loosened  itself ;  and  Uncle  Titus's  grand,  beautiful 
life  passed  over  to  them  continually  ;  for  hands  on  earth, 
he  had  their  hands  ;  for  feet,  their  feet.  There  was  no 
break,  as  Desire  had  said  ;  it  was  the  wonderful  "  fellow 
ship  of  the  mystery  "  which  God  meant,  in  the  manifold 
wisdom  that  they  know  in  heavenly  places,  when  He 
ordained  the  passing  over.  We  call  it  death  ;  we  make 
it  death  ;  a  separation.  We  leave  off  there.  We  gather 
up  the  tools  that  loved  ones  drop,  and  use  them  to  carve 
out,  selfishly,  our  own  pleasures ;  we  let  their  life  go,  as 
if  it  were  no  matter  to  keep  it  up  upon  the  earth.  We 
turn  our  backs,  and  go  our  ways,  and  leave  saints'  hands 
outstretched  invisibly  in  vain. 

It  was  ever  so  bright  and  cheerful  in  this  house  into 
which  death  —  that  was  such  a  birth  had  come.  These 


INHERITANCE.  143 

children  were  brimming  over  with  happy  thankfulness 
that  Uncle  Titus  had  loved  and  trusted  them  so.  They 
never  solemnized  their  looks  or  lengthened  their  accent 
when  they  spoke  of  him  ;  he  had  come  a  great  deal  nearer 
to  them  in  departing  than  he  had  ever  known  how  to 
come,  or  they  to  approach  him,  before.  Something  young 
in  his  nature  that  had  been  hidden  by  gray  hairs  and 
slowness  of  years,  sprang  to  join  itself  to  their  youth  on 
which  he  had  laid  his  bequest  of  the  Lord's  work.  They 
ran  lightly  up  and  down  where  he  had  walked  with  meas 
ured  gravity ;  they  chatted  and  laughed,  for  they  knew 
he  was  gladder  than  either ;  they  sat  in  Desire's  large, 
bright  chamber  at  their  work,  or  they  went  down  to  find 
out  things  in  books  in  the  library  ;  and  here,  though 
nothing  fell  with  any  chill  upon  their  spirits,  they  hand 
led  reverently  the  volumes  he  had  loved,  —  they  used 
tenderly  the  appliances  that  had  been  his  daily  conven 
ience.  With  an  unspoken  consent,  they  never  sat  in  the 
seat  that  had  been  his.  The  young  heiresses  of  his  place 
and  trust  made  each  a  place  for  herself  at  opposite  ends 
of  the  large  writing-table,  and  left  his  chair  before  his 
desk  as  if  he  himself  had  just  left  it  and  might  at  any 
moment  come  in  and  sit  again  there  with  them.  They 
always  kept  a  vase  of  flowers  beside  the  desk,  at  the  left 
hand. 

One  day,  that  summer,  they  were  up-stairs,  sewing. 
Rachel  Froke  was  busy  below ;  they  could  hear  some 
light  movement  now  and  then,  in  the  stillness;  or  her 
voice  came  up  through  the  open  windows  as  she  spoke  to 
Frendely,  the  dear  old  serving  woman,  helping  her  dust 
and  sort  over  glasses  and  jars  for  the  yearly  preserving. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  an  atmosphere  of  things  and  re 
lations  that  had  grown  and  sweetened  and  mellowed, 


144  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

there  was  about  tins  old  home :  what  a  lovely  repose 
of  stability,  in  the  midst  of  the  domestic  ferments  that 
are  all  about  us  in  the  changing  households  of  these 
changing  days.  Frendely,  who  had  served  her  maiden 
apprenticeship  in  a  country  family  of  England,  said  it 
was  like  the  real  old  places  there. 

"  Hazel,"  said  Desire,  suddenly, —  (she  did  her  think 
ing  deeply  and  slowly,  but  she  had  never  got  over  her 
old  suddenness  in  speech  ;  it  was  like  the  way  a  good  old 
seamstress  I  knew  used  to  advise  with  the  needle, —  "  Take 
your  stitch  deliberate,  but  pull  out  your  thread  as  quick 
as  you  can,")  —  "  Hazel !  I  think  I  may  go  to  Europe 
after  all." 

"  Desire  !  " 

"  And  more  than  that,  Hazie,  you  are  to  go  with  me." 

"  Desire  Led  with  !  "  . 

"  Yes,  those  are  my  names.  I  haven't  any  more ;  so 
your  surprise  can't  expend  itself  any  further  in  that  di 
rection.  Now,  listen.  It's  all  to  be  done  in  our  Wednes 
day  evening  Read-and- Talks.  See  ?  " 

"  O  !  " 

"Very  well;  begin  on  interjections  ;  they'll  last  some 
time.  What  I  mean  is,  an  idea  that  I  got  from  Mrs. 
Hautayne,  when  I  saw  her  last  spring  at  the  Schermans'. 
She  says  she  always  travelled  so  much  on  paper ;  and 
that  paper  travelling  is  very  much  like  paper  weddings  ; 
you  can  get  all  sorts  of  splendid  things  into  it.  There 
are  books,  and  maps,  and  gazetteers,  and  pictures,  and 
stereoscopes.  Friends'  letters  and  art  galleries.  I  took 
it  right  up  into  my  mind,  silently,  for  my  class,  sometime. 
And  pretty  soon,  I  think  we'll  go." 

"  O,  Desire,  how  nice  !  " 

"  That's  it !     One  new  word,  or  two,  every  time,  and 


INHERITANCE.  145 

repeat.  '  Now  say  the  five  ?  '  as  Fay's  Geography  used 
to  tell  us." 

"  O,  Desire  Ledwith,  how  nice  !  " 

"  Good  girl.  Now,  don't  you  think  that  Mrs.  Geoffrey 
and  Miss  Kirkbright  would  lend  us  pictures  and  things  ?  " 

"  How  little  we  seem  to  have  seen  of  the  Geoffreys 
lately !  I  mean,  all  this  spring,  even  before  they  went 
down  to  Beverly,"  said  Hazel,  flying  off  from  the  sub 
ject  in  hand  at  the  mention  of  their  names.  "  I  wonder 
why  it  is  fixed  so,  Des',  that  the  lest  people  —  those  you 
want  to  get  nearest  to  —  are  so  busy  being  the  best  that 
you  don't  get  much  chance  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  the  chance  is  laid  up,"  said  Desire,  thought 
fully.  "  I  think  a  good  many  things  are.  But  to  keep 
on,  Hazel,  about  my  plan.  You  know  those  two  beau 
tiful  girls  who  came  in  Sunday  before  last,  and  joined 
Miss  Kirkbright's  class  ?  Not  beautiful,  I  don't  mean 
exactly,  —  though  one  of  them  was  that,  too  ;  but  real " — 

"  Splendid !  "  filled  out  Hazel.  "  Real  ready-made 
sort  of  girls.  As  if  they'd  had  chapel  all  their  lives, 
somehow.  Not  like  first-Sunday  girls  at  all." 

"  One  of  them  was  a  chapel  girl.  Miss  Kirkbright  told 
me.  She  grew  up  there  till  she  was  sixteen  years  old ; 
then  she  went  to  live  in  the  country.  Now  I  must  have 
those  two  in,  you  see.  I  don't  know  but  Mr.  Vireo 
would  say  it  was  making  a  feast  for  friends  and  neigh 
bors,  if  I  pick  out  the  ready-made.  But  this  sort  of  thing 
—  you  must  have  some  reliance,  you  know  ;  then  there's 
something  for  the  rest  to  come  to,  and  grow  to.  I  think 
I  shall  begin  about  it  before  vacation,  while  they're  all 
together  and  alive -to  things.  It  takes  so  long  to  warm 
up  to  the  same  point  after  the  break.  We  nu'ght  have 
one  meeting,  just  to  organize,  and  make  it  a  settled 
1.0 


146  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

thing.     O,  how  good  it  will  be  when  Mr.  Vireo  comes 
home  ! " 

If  I  had  not  so  many  things  to  tell  before  my  story  can 
be  at  all  complete,  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to 
linger  here  in  Desire  Ledwith's  room,  where  there  was  so 
really  "  a  beautiful  east  window,  and  the  morning  had 
come  in."  I  should  like  to  just  stay  in  the  sunshine  of  it, 
and  show  what  the  stir  of  it  was,  and  what  it  had  come  to 
with  these  two ;  what  a  brightness,  day  by  day,  they 
lived  in.  I  should  be  glad  to  tell  their  piece  of  the  story 
minutely ;  but  I  should  not  be  able  to  get  at  it  to  tell. 
We  may  touch  such  lives,  and  feel  the  lovely  pleasant 
ness  ;  but  to  enter  in,  and  have  the  whole  —  that  may 
only  be  done  in  one  way ;  by  going  and  doing  likewise. 

This  talk  of  theirs  gives  one  link  ;  it  shows  you  how 
easily  and  naturally  they  came  to  have  to  do  with  the 
Ingrahams ;  how  they  belonged  in  one  sphere  and  drew 
to  one  centre  ;  how  simply  things  happen,  after  all,  when 
they  have  any  business  to  happen. 

Somebody  speaks  of  the  ascent  of  a  lofty  church  spire, 
as  giving  such  a  wonderful  glimpse  of  the  unity  of  a  great 
city  ;  showing  its  converging  movements,  its  net-work  of 
connection,  —  its  human  currents  swayed  and  turned  by 
intelligible  drifts  of  purpose ;  all  which,  when  one  is  down 
among  them,  seem  but  whirls  of  a  confusing  and  distract 
ing  medley  ;  a  heaping  and  a  rushing  together  of  many 
things  and  much  conflicting  action  ;  where  the  wonder  is 
that  it  stays  together  at  all,  or  that  one  part  plays  and 
fits  in  with  any  other  to  harmony  of  service.  If  we  could 
climb  high  enough,  and  see  deep  enough,  to  read  a  spirit 
ual  panorama  in  like  manner,  we  should  look  into  the 
mystery  of  the  intent  that  builds  the  worlds  and  works 
with  "  birth  and  death  and  infinite  motion  "  to  evolve 


INHERITANCE.  147 

the  wonders  of  all  human  and  angelic  history.  We 
should  only  marvel,  then,  at  what  we,  with  our  little  bit 
of  wayward  free  will,  hinder ;  not  at  what  God  gently 
and  mightily  forecasts  and  brings  to  pass. 

To  find  another  link,  we  must  go  away  and  look  in 
elsewhere. 


148  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

^Kr^r~% 
•  Ur v 


CHAPTER  X. 

ITLLMEE,  AND  BYLLES. 

FT  was  a  hot  morning  in  the  heart  of  summer. 

The  girls,  coming  in  to  their  work,  after  breakfasts 
of  sour  rolls,  cheap,  raw,  bitter  coffee  and  blue  milk,  with 
a  greasy  relish,  perhaps,  of  sausage,  bacon,  fried  potatoes, 
or  whatever  else  was  economical  and  untouchable,  —  with  \ 
the  world  itself  frying  in  the  fervid  blaze  of  a  sun  ram 
pant  for  fifteenth  ours  a  day,  —  saw  in  the  windows  early 
peaches,  cool  salads,  and  fresh  berries  ;  yellow  and  red 
bananas  in  mellow,  heavy  clusters ;  morning  bouquets  v 
lying  daintily  on  wet  mosses  ;  pale,  beryl-green,  trans 
parent  hothouse  grapes  hanging  their  globes  of  sweet, 
refrigerant  juices  before  toil-parched,  unsatisfied,  feverish 
lips. 

Let  us  hope  that  it  did  them  good ;  it  is  all  we  can  do 
now  about  it. 

Up  in  the  work-room  of  a  great  dress-making  establish 
ment  were  heaps  of  delicate  cambric,  Victoria  lawn, 
piques,  muslins,  piles  of  frillings,  Hamburg  edgings,  in 
sertions,  bands.  Machines  were  tripping  and  buzzing ; 
cutters  were  clipping  at  the  tables  ;  the  forewoman  was 
moving-  about,  directing  here,  hurrying  there,  reproving 
now  and  then  for  some  careless  tension,  rough  fastening, 
or  clumsy  seam.  Out  of  it  all  were  resulting  lovely  white 
suits  ;  delicate,  cloud-like,  flounced  robes  of  bewitching 
tints  ;  graceful  morning  wrappers,  —  perfect  toilets  of  all 
kinds  for  girls  at  watering-places  and  in  elegant  summer 
homes. 


FILLMER  AND   BYLLES.  149 

Orders  kept  coming  down  from  the  mountains,  up  from 
the  sea-beaches,  in  from  the  country  seats,  where  gay, 
friendly  circles  were  amusing  away  the  time,  and  making 
themselves  beautiful  before  each  others'  eyes. 

For  it  was  fearfully  hot  again  this  year. 

Bel  Bree  did  not  care.  It  all  amused  her.  She  had 
not  got  worn  down  yet,  and  she  did  not  live  in  a  cheap, 
working-girls'  boarding-house.  She  had  had  radishes 
that  morning  with  her  bread  and  butter,  and  a  little  of 
last  year's  fruit  out  of  a  tin  can  for  supper  the  night 
before.  That  was  the  way  Miss  Bree  managed  about 
peaches.  I  believe  that  was  the  way  she  thought  the 
petition  in  the  Litany  was  answered,  —  "Preserve  to 
our  use  the  kindly  fruits  of  the  earth,  that  in  due  time  we 
may  enjoy  them  ; "  after  the  luckier  people  have  had 
their  fill,  and  begun  on  the  new,  and  the  cans  are  cheap. 
There  are  ways  of  managing  things,  even  with  very  little 
money.  If  you  pay  for  the  managing,  you  have  to  do 
without  the  things.  Bel  and  her  aunt  together,  with 
their  united  earnings  and  their  nice,  cosy  ways,  were  very 
far  'from  being  uncomfortable.  Bel  said  she  liked  the 
piiich,  —  what  there  was  of  it.  She  liked  "  a  little  bit 
brought  home  in  a  paper  and  made  much  of." 

Bel  had  been  just  a  fortnight  in  the  city.  She  had 
gone  right  to  work  with  her  aunt  at  Fillmer  &  Bylles ; 
she  was  bright  and  quick,  knew  how  to  run  a  "  Wilcox 
&  Gibbs,"  and  had  "  some  perception,"  the  forewoman 
said,  grimly  ;  with  a  delicate  implication  that  some  others 
had  not.  Miss  Tonker's  praises  always  pared  off  on  one 
side  what  they  put  on  upon  another. 

It  had  taken  Bel  a  fortnight  to  feel  her  ground,  and  to 
get  exactly  the  "  lay  of  the  land."  Then  she  went  to 
work,  unhesitatingly,  to  set  some  small  things  right. 


150  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

This  morning  she  had  hurried  herself  and  her  aunt, 
come  early,  and  put  Miss  Bree  down,  resolutely,  against 
all  her  disclaimers,  in  a  corner  of  the  very  best  window  in 
the  room.  To  do  this,  she  moved  Matilda  Meane's  sew 
ing-machine  a  little. 

When  Matilda  Meane  came  in,  she  looked  as  though 
she  thought  the  world  was  moved.  She  did  not  exactly 
dare  to  order  Miss  Bree  up  ;  but  she  elbowed  about,  she 
pushed  her  machine  this  way  and  that ;  she  behaved  like 
a  hen  hustled  off  her  nest  and  not  quite  making  up  her 
mind  whether  she  would  go  back  to  it  or  not.  Miss 
Bree's  nose  grew  apprehensive ;  it  drew  itself  up  with  a 
little,  visible,  trembling  gasp,  —  her  small  eyes  glanced 
timidly  from  under  the  drawn,  puckered  lids  ;  it  was 
evidently  all  she  could  do  to  hold  her  ground.  But  Bel 
had  put  her  there,  and  loyalty  to  Bel  kept  her  passive. 
It  is  so  much  harder  for  some  poor  meek  things  ever  to 
take  anything,  than  it  is  forever  to  go  without.  Only 
for  love  and  gratefulness  can  they  ever  be  made  to  assume 
their  common  human  rights. 
Presently  it  had  to  come  out. 

Bel  was  singing  away,  as  she  gathered  her  work 
together  in  an  opposite  quarter  of  the  room,  keeping  a 
glance  out  at  her  right  eye-corner,  expectantly. 

"  Who  moved  this  machine  ?  "  asked  Matilda  Meane, 
stopping  short  in  her  endeavors  to  make  it  take  up  the 
middle  of  the  window  without  absolutely  rolling  it  over 
Aunt  Blin's  toes. 

"  I  did,  a  little,"  answered  Bel,  promptly.  "  There 
was  plenty  of  room  for  two  ;  and  if  there  hadn't  been, 
Aunt  Blin  must  have  a  good  light,  and  have  it  over  her 
left  shoulder,  at  that.  She's  the  oldest  person  in  the 
room,  Miss  Meane !  " 


FILLMER   AND   BYLLES.  151 

"  She  was  spoken  to  yesterday  about  her  buttonholes," 
she  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  to  Eliza  Mokey,  as  she  settled 
herself  in  her  own  seat  next  that  young  lady.  "  And  it 
was  all  because  she  could  hardly  see." 

"  Buttonholes  or  not,"  answered  Eliza,  who  preferred 
to  be  called  "  Elise,"  "  I'm  glad  somebody  has  taken  Mat 
Meane  down  at  last.  She  needed  it.  I  wish  yo\i  could 
take  her  in  hand  everywhere.  If  you  boarded  at  our 
house  "  — 

"  I  shouldn't,"  interrupted  Bel,  decisively.  "  Not 
under  any  circumstances,  from  what  you  tell  of  it." 

"  That's  all  very  well  to  say  now  ;  you're  in  clover, 
comparatively.  '  Chaters  '  and  real  tea,  —  and  a  three- 
ply  carpet !  " 

Miss  Mokey  had  gone  home  with  Bel  and  Aunt  Blin, 
one  evening  lately,  when  there  had  been  work  to  finish 
and  they  had  made  a  "  bee  "  of  it. 

"See  if  you  could  help  yourself  if  you  hadn't  Aunt 
Blin." 

"  Why  couldn't  I  help  myself  as  well  as  she  ?  She 
had  a  nice  place  all  alone,  before  I  came." 

"  She  must  have  half  starved  herself  to  keep  it,  then. 
Stands  to  reason.  Dollar  and  a  quarter  a  day,  and 
five  dollars  a  week  for  your  room.  Where's  your  muffins, 
and  your  Oolong  ?  Or  else,  where's  your  shoes  ?  — 
Where's  that  Hamburg  edging  ?  " 

"  We  don't  have  any  Hamburg  edging,"  said  Bel, 
laughing. 

"  Nonsense.  You  know  what  I  mean.  O,  here  it  is, 
under  all  that  pique  !  For  mercy's  sake,  won't  Miss 
Tonker  blow  ?  —  Now  I  get  my  nine  dollars  a  week,  and 
out  of  it  I  pay  six  for  my  share  of  that  miserable  sky- 
parlor,  and  my  ends  of  the  crusts  and  the  cheese-parings. 


152  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

No  place  to  myself  for  a  minute.  Why,  I  feel  mixed  up 
sometimes  to  that  degree  that  I'd  almost  like  to  die,  and 
begin  again,  to  find  out  who  I  am  !  " 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  live  so.  And  Aunt  Blin  wouldn't. 
I'm  afraid  she  didn't  have  other  things  quite  so  —  corre 
sponding  —  when  she  was  by  herself ;  but  she  had  the 
home  comfort.  And,  truly,  now,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
there  was  real  nourishment  in  just  looking  round,  — at  a 
red  carpet  and  things,  — when  you've  got  'em  all  just  to 
your  own  mind.  You  can  piece  out  with  —  peace  !  " 

For  two  or  three  minutes,  there  was  nothing  heard 
after  that  in  Bel  and  Elise's  corner,  but  the  regular  busy 
click  of  the  machines,  as  the  tucks  ran  evenly  through. 
Miss  Tonker  was  hovering  in  the  neighborhood.  But 
presently,  as  she  moved  off,  and  Elise  had  a  spool  to 
change,  Bel  began  again. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  up  something  different  ?  Why 
couldn't  a  dozen,  or  twenty,  take  a  flat,  or  a  whole  house, 
and  have  a  housekeeper,  and  live  nice  ?  I  believe  I  could 
contrive." 

Bel  was  a  born  contriver.  She  was  a  born  reformer, 
as  all  poets  are ;  only  she  did  not  know  yet  that  she  was 
either.  That  had  been  the  real  trouble  up  in  New  Hamp 
shire.  She  had  her  ideals,  and  she  could  not  carry  them 
out ;  so  she  sat  and  dreamed  of  what  she  would  do  if  she 
could.  If  'she  might  in  any  way  have  moulded  her  home 
to  her  own  more  delicate  instincts,  it  may  be  that  her 
step-mother  need  not  have  had  to  complain  that  "  there 
was  no  spunk  or  snap  to  her  about  anything."  It  was 
not  in  her  to  "  whew  round  "  among  tubs  and  whey,  — 
to  go  slap -dash  into  soapmaking,  or  the  coarse  Monday's 
washing,  when  all  nicer  cares  were  evaded  or  forbidden  ; 
when  chairs  were  shoved  back  against  each  other  into 


FILLMEK  AND   BYLLES.  153 

corners,  table-cloths  left  crooked,  and  dragging  and 
crumby,  drawing  the  flies,  —  mantel  ornaments  of  un 
couth  odds  and  ends  pushed  all  awry  and  one  side  during 
a  dusting,  and  left  so,  —  carpets  rough  and  untidy  at  the 
corners  ;  no  touch  of  prettiness  or  pleasantness,  nothing 
but  clear,  necessary  work  anywhere.  She  would  have 
made  home  home  ;  then  she  would  have  worked  for  it. 

Aunt  Blin  was  like  her.  She  would  rather  sit  behind 
her  blinds  in  her  neat,  quiet  room  of  a  Sunday,  too  tired 
to  go  to'church,  but  with  a  kind  of  sacred  rest  about  her, 
and  a  possible  hushed  thought  of  a  presence  in  a  place 
that  God  had  let  her  make  that  He  might  abide  with 
her  in  it,  —  than  to  live  as  these  girls  did,  —  even  to  have 
been  young  like  them ;  to  have  put  on  fine,  gay  things, 
bought  with  the  small  surplus  of  her  weekly  earnings 
after  the  wretched  board  was  paid,  and  parade  the 
streets,  or  sit  in  a  pew,  with  a  Sunday-consciousness  of 
gloves  and  new  bonnet  upon  her. 

"  O,  faugh  !  "  said  Elise  Mokey,  impatiently,  to  Bel's 
"  I  could  contrive."  "  I  should  like  to  see  you,  with 
girls  like  Matilda  Meane.  You've  got  to  get  your  dozen 
or  twenty,  first,  and  make  them  agree." 

Miss  Mokey  had  very  likely  never  heard  of  Mrs.  Glass, 
or  of  the  "  catching  your  hare,"  which  is  the  impractica 
ble  hitch  at  the  start  of  most  delicious  things  that  might 
otherwise  be  done. 

"  I  think  this  world  is  a  kind  of  single-threaded  ma 
chine,  after  all.  There's  always  something  either  too 
tight  or  too  loose  the  minute  you  double,"  she  said, 
changing  her  tension-screw  as  she  spoke.  "  No  ;  we've 
just  got  to  make  it  up  with  cracker-frolics,  the  best  way 
we  can ;  and  that  takes  one  more  of  somebody's  nine 
dollars,  every  time.  There's  some  fun  in  it,  after  all ; 


154  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

especially  to  see  Matilda  Meane  come  to  the  table.  I  do 
believe  that  girl  would  sell  her  soul  if  she  could  have  a 
Parker  House  dinner  every  day.  When  it's  a  little 
worse,  or  a  little  better  than  usual,  when  the  milk  gives 
out,  or  we  have  a  yesterday's  lobster  for  tea,  —  I  wish 
you  could  just  see  her.  She's  so  mad,  or  slie's  so  eager. 
She  will  have  claw-meat ;  it  is  claw-meat  with  her,  sure 
enough  ;  and  if  anybody  else  gets  it  first,  or  the  dish  goes 
round  the  other  way  and  is  all  picked,  over,  —  she  looks  ! 
Why,  she  looks  as  if  she  desired  the  prayers  of  the  con 
gregation,  and  nobody  would  pray  !  " 

"  What  are  you  two  laughing  at  ? "  broke  in  Kate 
Sencerbox,  leaning  over  from  her  table  beyond.  "  Bel 
Bree,  where  are  your  crimps  ?  " 

In  the  ardor  of  her  work,  or  talk,  or  both,  Bel's  hair, 
as  usual,  had  got  pushed  recklessly  aside. 

"  O,  I  only  have  a  little  smile  in  my  hair  early  in  the 
morning,"  replies  quick,  cheery  Bel.  "  It  never  crimps 
decidedly,  and  it  all  gets  straightened  out  prim  enough  as 
the  day's  work  comes  on.  It's  like  the  grass  of  the  field, 
and  a  good  many  other  things  ;  in  the  morning  it  is  fresh 
and  springeth  up  ;  in  the  evening  it  giveth  up,  and  is 
down  flat." 

"  I  guess  you'll  find  it  so,"  said  Elise  Mokey,  splenet- 
ically. 

"  Was  that  what  you  were  laughing  at  ?  "  asked  Kate. 
"  Seems  to  me  you  choose  rather  aggravating  subjects." 

"  Aggravations  are  as  good  as  anything  to  laugh  at,  if 
you  only  know  how,"  Bel  Bree  said. 

"  They're  always  handy,  at  any  rate,"  said  Elise. 

"  I  thought  '  aggravate  '  meant  making  worse  than  it 
is,"  said  quiet  little  Mary  Pinfall. 

"  Just   it,  Molly  !  "    answered  Bel  Bree,  quick  as  a 


FILLMER   AND   BYLLES.  155 

flash.  "  Take  a  plague,  make  it  out  seven  times  as  bad 
as  it  is,  so  that  it's  perfectly  ridiculous  and  impossible, 
and  then  laugh  at  it.  Next  time  you  put  your  finger  on 
it,  as  the  Irishman  said  of  the  flea,  it  isn't  there." 

"  That's  hommerpathy,"  said  Miss  Proddle.  "Hom- 
merpathy  cures  by  aggravating." 

Miss  Proddle  was  tiresome  ;  she  always  said  things 
that  had  been  said  before,  or  that  needed  no  saying. 
Miss  Proddle  was  another  of  those  old  girls  who,  like 
Miss  Bree  among  the  young  ones,  have  outlived  and  lost 
their  Christian  names,  with  their  vivacity.  Never  mind  ; 
it  is  the  Christian  name,  and  the  Lord  knows  them  by 
it,  as  He  did  Martha  and  Mary. 

"  Reductio  ad  absurdum"  put  in  Grace  Toppings,  who 
had  been  at  a  High  School,  and  studied  geometry. 

"  Grace  Toppings  ! "  called  out  Kate  Sencerbox, 
shortly,  "  you've  stitched  that  flounce  together  with  a 
twist  in  it !  " 

Miss  Tonker  heard,  and  came  round  again. 

"  Gyurls  !  "  she  said,  with  elegantly  severe  authority, 
"  I  will  not  have  this  talking  over  the  work.  Miss  Top 
pings,  this  whole  skirt  is  an  unmitigated  muddle.  Head- 
tucks  half  an  inch  too  near  the  bottom !  No  room  for 
your  flounce.  If  you  can't  keep  to  your  measures,  you'd 
better  not  undertake  piece-work.  Take  that  last  welt 
out,  and  put  it  in  over  the  top.  And  make  no  more 
blunders,  if  you  please,  unless  you  want  to  be  put  to 
plain  yard-stitching." 

"  Eight  inches  and  a  half  is  some  room  for  a  flounce, 
I  guess,  if  it  ain't  nine  inches,"  muttered  the  mathemat 
ical  Grace,  as  she  began  the  slow  ripping  of  the  lock- 
stitched  tucking,  that  would  take  half  an  hour  out  of  the 
value  of  her  day. 


156  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  That's  a  comfort,  ain't  it  ?  "  whispered  mischievous, 
sharp,  good-natured  Kate.  "  Look  here ;  I'll  help,  if 
you  won't  talk  any  more  Latin,  or  Hottentot." 

It  was  of  no  use  to  tell  those  girls  not  to  talk  over  their 
work.  The  more  work  they  had  in  them,  the  more  talk  ; 
it  was  a  test,  like  a  steam-gauge.  Only  the  poor,  pale, 
worn-out  ones,  like  Emma  Hollen,  who  coughed  and 
breathed  short,  and  could  not  spend  strength  even  in 
listening,  amidst  the  conflicting  whirr  of  the  feeds  and 
wheels,  —  and  the  old,  sobered-down,  slow  ones,  like  Miss 
Bree  and  Miss  Proddle,  button-holing  and  gather-sewing 
for  dear  life,  with  their  spectacles  over  their  noses,  and 
great  bald  places  showing  on  the  tops  of  their  bent  heads, 
—  kept  time  with  silent  thoughts  to  the  beat  of  their 
treadles  and  the  clip  of  their  needles  against  the  thimble- 
ends. 

Elise  Mokey  stretched  up  her  back  slowly,  and  drew 
her  shoulders  painfully  out  of  their  steady  cramp. 

"  There  !  I  went  round  without  stopping  !  I  put  a 
sign .  on  it,  and  I've  got  my  wish  !  I'd  rather  sweep  a 
room,  though,  than  do  it  again." 

"  You  might  sweep  a  room,  instead,"  said  Emma  Hol 
len,  in  her  low,  faint  tone,  moved  to  speak  by  some  echo 
in  that  inward  rhythm  of  her  thinking.  "  I  partly  wish 
/had,  before  now." 

"  O,  you  goose  !     Be  a  kitchen-wolloper !  " 

"  May  be  I  sha'n't  be  anything,  very  long.  I  should 
like  to  feel  as  if  I  could  stir  round." 

"  I  wouldn't  care  if  anybody  could  see  what  it  came  to, 
or  what  there  was  left  of  it  at  the  year's  end,"  said  Elise 
Mokey. 

"  I'd  sweep  a  room  fast  enough  if  it  was  my  own," 
said  Kate  Sencerbox.  "  But  you  won't  catch  me  sweep 
ing  up  other  folks'  dust !  " 


FILLMER  AND  BYLLES.  157 

"I  wonder  what  other  folks'  dust  really  is,  when 
you've  sifted  it,  and  how  you'd  pick  out  your  own,"  said 
Bel. 

"  I'd  have  my  own  place,  at  any  rate,"  responded  Kate, 
"and  the  dust  that  got  into  it  would  go  for  mine,  I 
suppose." 

Bel  Bree  tucked  away.  Tucked  away  thoughts  also, 
as  she  worked.  Not  one  of  those  girls  who  had  been 
talking  had  anything  like  a  home.  What  was  there  for 
them  at  the  year's  end,  after  the  wearing  round  and  round 
of  daily  toil,  but  the  diminishing  dream  of  a  happier 
living  that  might  never  come  true  ?  The  fading  away 
out  of  their  health  and  prettiness  into  "  old  things  like 
Miss  Proddle  and  Aunt  Blin,"  — to  take  their  turn  then, 
in  being  snubbed  and  shoved  aside  ?  Bel  liked  her  own 
life  here,  so  far ;  it  was  pleasanter  than  that  which  she 
had  left ;  but  she  began  to  see  how  hundreds  of  other 
girls  were  going  on  in  it  without  reward  or  hope  ;  unfit 
ting  themselves,  many  of  them  utterly,  by  the  very  mode 
of  their  careless,  rootless  existence,  —  all  of  them,  more  or 
less,  by  the  narrow  specialty  of  their  monotonous  drudgery, 
—  for  the  bright,  capable,  adaptive  many-sidedness  of  a 
happy  woman's  living  in  the  love  and  use  and  beauty  of 
home. 

Some  of  her  thoughts  prompted  the  fashion  in  which 
she  recurred  to  the  subject  during  the  hour's  dinner 
time. 

They  were  grouped  together  —  the  same  half  dozen  — 
in  a  little  ante-room,  with  a  very  dusty  window  looking 
down  into  an  alley-way,  or  across  it  rather,  since  unless 
they  really  leaned  out  from  their  fifth  story,  the  line  of 
vision  could  not  strike  the  base  of  the  opposite  buildings  ; 
a  room  used  for  the  manifold  purposes  of  clothes-hanging, 


158  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

hand- washing,  brush  and  broom  stowing,  and  lunch  eon  - 
eating. 

"  Girls !  What  would  you  do  most  for  in  this  world  ? 
What  would  you  have  for  your  choice,  if  you  could  get 
it?" 

"  Stories  to  read,  and  theatre  tickets  every  night,"  said 
Grace  Toppings. 

"  Something  decent  to  eat,  as  often  as  I  was  hungry," 
said  Matilda  Meane,  speaking  thick  through  a  big  mouth 
ful  of  cream-cake. 

"  To  be  married  to  Lord  Mortimer,  and  go  and  live  in 
an  Abbey,"  said  Mary  Pinfall,  who  sat  on  a  box  with  a 
cracker  in  one  hand,  and  the  third  volume  of  her  old 
novel  in  the  other. 

The  girls  shouted. 

"  That  means  you'd  like  a  real  good  husband,  —  a 
Tom,  or  a  Dick,  or  a  Harry,"  said  Kate  Sencerbox. 
"  Lord  Mortimers  don't  grow  in  this  country.  W^e  must 
take  the  kind  that  do.  And  so  we  will,  every  one  of  us, 
when  we  can  get  'em.  Only  I  hope  mine  will  keep  a 
store  of  his  own,  and  have  a  house  up  in  Chester  Park !  " 

"If  I  can  ever  see  the  time  that  I  can  have  dresses 
made  for  me,  instead  of  working  my  head  and  feet  off 
making  them  for  other  people,  I  don't  care  where  my 
house  is  !  "  said  Elise  Mokey. 

"  Or  your  husband  either,  I  suppose,"  said  Kate, 
sharply. 

"  Wouldn't  I  just  like  to  walk  in  here  some  day,  and 
order  old  Toiiker  round  ?  "  said  Elise,  disregarding.  "  I 
only  hope  she'll  hold  out  till  I  can !  Won't  I  have  a 
black  silk  suit  as  thick  as  a  board,  with  fifteen  yards  in 
the  kilting  ?  And  a  violet-gray,  with  a  yard  of  train 
and  Yak-flounces !  " 


FILLMEK   AND   BYLLES.  159 

"  That  isn't  my  sort,"  said  Kate  Sencerbox,  emphat 
ically.  "  It's  played  out,  for  me.  People  talk  about  our 
being  in  the  way  of  temptation,  always  seeing  what  we 
can't  have.  It  isn't  that  would  ever  tempt  me  ;  I'm  sick 
of  it.  I  know  all  the  breadth-seams,  and  the  gores,  and 
the  gathers,  and  the  travelling  round  and  round  with  the 
hems  and  trimmings  and  bindings  and  flouncings.  If  I 
could  get  out  of  it,  and  never  hear  of  it  again,  and  be  in 
a  place  of  my  own,  with  my  time  to  myself !  Wouldn't 
I  like  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  choose  what  I  would 
do  ?  —  when  it  wasn't  Fast  Day,  nor  Fourth  of  July,  nor 
Washington's  Birthday,  nor  any  day  in  particular  ?  I 
think,  on  the  whole,  I'd  choose  not  to  get  up.  A  chance 
to  be  lazy  ;  that's  my  vote,  after  all,  Bel  Bree  !  " 

"  O,  dear !  cried  Bel,  •  despairingly.  "  Why  don't 
some  of  you  wish  for  nice,  cute  little  things  ?  " 

"  Tell  us  what,"  said  Kate.  "  I  think  we  have  wished 
for  all  sorts,  amongst  us." 

"  O,  a  real  little  home  —  to  take  care  of,"  said  Bel. 
"  Not  fine,  nor  fussy ;  but  real  sweet  and  pleasant. 
Sunny  windows  and  flowers,  and  a  pretty  carpet,  and 
white  curtains,  and  one  of  those  chromos  of  little  round, 
yellow  chickens.  A  best  china  tea-set,  and  a  real  trig 
little  kitchen ;  pies  to  make  for  Sundays  and  Thanks 
givings  ;  just  enough  work  to  do  in  the  mornings,  and 
time  in  the  afternoons  to  sit  and  sew,  and  —  somebody  to 
read  to  you  out  loud  in  the  evenings !  I  think  I'd  do 
anything  —  that  wasn't  wicked  —  to  come  to  live  just 
like  that !  " 

"  There  isn't  anybody  that  does  live  so  nowadays," 
said  Kate.    u  There's  nothing  between  horrid  little  stivey 
places,  and  a  regular  scrub  and  squall  and  slop  all  the 
week  round,  and  silk  and  show  and  ordering  other  folks 


160  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

about.  You've  got  to  be  top  or  bottom ;  and  if  it's  all 
the  same  to  you,  I  mean  to  be  top  if  I  ca,n  ;  even  if  "  — 

Kate  was  a  great  deal  better  than  her  pretences,  after 
all.  She  did  not  finish  the  bad  sentence. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  do  wonder  at,"  said  Bel  Bree. 
"  So  many  great,  beautiful  homes  in  this  city,  and  so  few 
people  to  live  in  them.  All  the  rest  crowded  up,  and 
crowded  out.  When  I  go  round  through  Hero  Street, 
and  Pilgrim  Street,  and  past  all  the  little  crammy  courts 
and  places,  out  into  the  big  avenues  where  all  the  houses 
stand  back  from  each  other  with  such  a  grand  politeness, 
I  want  to  say,  Move  up  a  little,  can't  you  ?  There's 
such  small  room  for  people  in  there,  behind  !  " 

"  Say  it,  why  don't  you  ?  I'll  tell  you  who'd  listen. 
Washington,  sitting  on  his  big  bronze  horse,  paAving  in 
the  air  at  Commonwealth  Avenue  !  " 

44  Well — Washington  would  listen,  if  he  wasn't  bronze. 
And  its  grand  for  everybody  to  look  at  him  there.  I 
shouldn't  really  want  the  houses  to  move  up,  I  suppose. 
It's  good  to  have  grandness  somewhere,  or  else  nobody 
would  have  any  place  to  stretch  in.  But  there  must  be 
some  sort  of  moving  up  that  could  be,  to  make  things 
evener,  if  we  only  knew !  " 

Poor  little  Bel  Bree,  just  dropped  down  out  of  New 
Hampshire  !  What  a  problem  the  great  city  was  already 
to  her  ! 

Miss  Tonker  put  her  sub-aristocratic  face  in  at  the 
door.  It  is  a  curious  kind  of  reflected  majesty  that  these1 
important  functionaries  get,  who  take  at  first  hand  the 
magnificent  orders,  and  sustain  teinporary  relations  of 
silk-and-velvet  intimacy  with  Spreaclsplendid  Park. 

The  hour  was  up.  Mary  Pinfall  slid  her  romance  into 
the  pocket  of  her  waterproof  ;  Matilda  Meane  swallowed 


FILLMER   AND   BYLLES.  161 

her  last  mouthful  of  the  four  cream-cakes  which  she  had 
valorously  demolished  without  assistance,  and  hastily 
washed  her  hands  at  the  faucet;  Kate  and  Elise  and 
Grace  brushed  by  her  with  a  sniff  of  generous  contempt. 
In  two  minutes,  the  wheels  and  feeds  were  buzzing  and 
clicking  again.  What  did  they  say,  and  emphasize,  and 
repeat,  in  the  ears  that  bent  over  them?  Mechanical 
time-beats  say  something,  always.  They  force  in  and  in 
upon  the  soul  its  own  pulses  of  thought,  or  memory,  or 
purpose  ;  of  imagination  or  desire.  They  weld  and  con 
solidate  our  moods,  our  elements.  Twenty  miles  of 
musing  to  the  rhythmic  throbbings  of  a  railroad  train, 
who  does  not  know  how  it  can  shape  and  deepen  and 
confirm  whatever  one  has  started  with  in  mind  or  heart  ? 


162  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

• 

CHAPTER  XL 

CEISTOFERO. 

A  SEPTEMBER  morning  on  the  deck  of  a  steamer, 
bound  into  New  York,  two  days  from  her  port. 

A  fair  wind  ;  waves  gleaming  as  they  tossed  landward, 
with  the  white  crests  and  the  grand  swell  that  told  of 
some  mid-Atlantic  storm,  which  had  given  them  their 
impulse  days  since,  and  would  send  them  breaking  upon 
the  American  capes  and  beaches,  in  splendid  tumult  of 
foam,  and  roar,  and  plunge ;  "  white  horses,"  wearing 
rainbows  in  their  manes. 

The  blue  heaven  full  of  sunshine  ;  the  air  full  of  sea- 
tingle  ;  a  morning  to  feel  the  throb  and  spring  of  the 
vessel  under  one's  feet,  as  an  answer  to  the  throb  and 
spring  of  one's  own  life  and  eagerness ;  the  leap  of 
strength  in  the  veins,  and  the  homeward  haste  in  the 
heart. 

Two  gentlemen,  who  had  talked  much  together  in  the 
nine  days  of  their  ship-companionship,  stood  together  at 
the  taffrail. 

One  was  the  Reverend  Hilary  Vireo,  minister  of  Mavis 
Place  Chapel,  Boston,  —  coming  back  to  his  work  in  glo 
rious  renewal  from  his  eight  weeks'  holiday  in  Europe. 
The  other  was  Christopher  Kirkbright,  younger  partner 
of  the  house  of  Ferguson,  Ramsay,  and  Kirkbright,  tea 
and  silk  merchants,  Hong  Kong.  Christopher  Kirk 
bright  had  gone  out  to  China  from  Glasgow,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-one,  pledged  to  a  ten  years'  stay.  For  five 
years  past,  he  had  had  a  share  in  the  business  for  him- 


CRISTOFERO.  163 

+ 

self  ;  for  the  two  last,  lie  had  represented  also  the  interest 
of  Grahame  Kirkbright,  his  uncle,  third  partner ;  had 
inherited,  besides,  half  of  his  estate ;  the  other  half  had 
come  to  our  friend  at  home,  his  sister,  Miss  Euphrasia. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  stay  out  there  any  longer,  making 
my  tools  ;  multiplying  them,  without  definite  purpose.  It 
was  time  to  put  them  to  their  use ;  and  I  have  come 
home  to  find  it.  A  man  may  take  till  thirty-one  to  get 
ready,  mayn't  he,  Mr.  Vireo  ?  " 

"  The  man  who  took  up  the  work  of  the  world's  salva 
tion,  began  to  be  about  thirty  years  of  age  when  he  came 
forth  to  public  ministry,"  returned  Mr.  Vireo. 

"  I  never  thought  of  that  before.  I  wonder  I  never 
did.  It  has  come  home  to  me,  in  many  other  parts  of 
that  Life,  how  full  it  is  of  scarcely  recognized  analogy  to 
prevailing  human  experience.  That  '  driving  into  the 
Wilderness  ! '  What  an  inevitable  interval  it  is  between 
the  realizing  of  a  special  power  and  the  finding  out  of  its 
special  purpose  !  I  am  in  the  Wilderness,  —  or  was,  — 
Vireo  ;  but  I  knew  my  way  lay  through  it.  I  have  been 
pausing  —  thinking  —  striving  to  know.  The  tempta 
tions  may  not  have  been  wanting,  altogether,  either. 
There  are  so  many  things  one  can  do  easily ;  consider 
ing  one's  self,  largely,  in  the  plan.  My  whole  life  has 
waited,  in  some  chief  respects,  till  the  end  of  these  ten 
pledged  years.  What  was  I  to  do  wi£h  it  ?  Where  was 
I  to  look  for,  and  find  most  speedily,  all  that  a  man  be 
gins  to  feel  the  desire  to  establish  for  himself  at  thirty 
years  old  ?  Home,  society,  sphere  ;  I  can  tell  you  it  is  a 
strange  feeling/to  take  one's  fortune  in  one's  hand  and 
come  forth  from  such  a  business  exile,  and  choose  where 
one  will  make  the  first  link,  —  decide  the  first  condition, 
which  may  draw  after  all  the  rest.  Happily,  I  had  my 


164  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

sister  to  come  home  to  ;  and  I  had  the  remembrance  of 
the  little  story  my  mother  told  me  —  about  my  name.  I 
think  she  looked  forward  for  the  boy  who  could  know  so 
little  then  of  the  destiny  partly  laid  out  for  him  already." 

"  About  your  name  ?  "  reminded  Mr.  Vireo.  He  al 
ways  liked  to  hear  the  whole  of  a  thing ;  especially  a 
thing  that  touched  and  influenced  spiritually. 

"  Yes.  The  story  of  Saint  Cristofero.  The  strong 
man,  Offero,  who  would  serve  the  strongest ;  who  served 
a  great  king,  till  he  learned  that  the  king  feared  Satan ; 
who  then  sought  Satan  and  served  him,  till  he  found  that 
Satan  feared  the  Cross ;  who  sought  for  Jesus,  then,  that 
he  might  serve  Him,  and  found  a  hermit  who  bade  him 
fast  and  pray.  But  he  would  not  fast,  since  from  his 
food  came  his  strength  to  serve  with ;  nor  pray,  because 
it  seemed  to  him  idle  ;  but  he  went  forth  to  help  those 
who  were  in  danger  of  being  swept  away,  as  they 
struggled  to  cross  the  deep,  wide  River.  He  bore  them 
through  upon  his  shoulders,  —  the  weak,  the  little,  the 
weary.  At  last,  he  bore  a  little  child  who  entreated  him ; 
and  the  child  grew  heavy,  and  heavier,  till,  when  they 
reached  the  other  side,  Offero  said,  —  '  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
borne  the  world  upon  my  shoulders !  '  And  he  was 
answered,  — 4  Thou  may'st  say  that ;  for  thou  hast  borne 
Him  who  made  the  world.'  And  then  he  knew  that  it 
was  the  Lord  ;  anc^  he  was  called  no  more  '  Offero,'  but 
4  Cristofero.'  My  mother  told  me  that  when  I  was  a 
little  child  ;  and  the  story  has  grown  in  me.  The  Christ 
has  yet  to  be  borne  on  men's  shoulders." 

Hilary  Vireo  stood  and  listened  with  gleaming  eyes. 
Of  course,  he  knew  the  old  saint-legend ;  of  course, 
Christopher  Kirkbright  supposed  it ;  but  these  were  men 
who  understood  without  the  saying,  that  the  verities  are 


CfclSTOFERO.  165 

forever  old  and  forever  new.  A  mother's  wise  and  ten 
der  tale,  —  a  child's  life  growing  into  a  man's,  and  sanc 
tifying  itself  with  a  purpose,  —  these  were  the  informing 
that  filled  afresh  every  sentence  of  the  story,  and  made 
its  repetition  a  most  fair  and  sweet  origination. 

"And  so,"  — 

"  And  so,  I  must  earn  my  name,"  said  Christopher 
Kirkbright,  simply. 

"  Lift  them  up,  and  take  them  across,"  said  Hilary 
Vireo,  as  if  thinking  it  over  to  himself.  The  old  story 
Had  quickened  him.  A  grand  perception  came  to  him  for 
his  friend,  who  had  begged  him  to  think  for  and  advise 
him.  "  Lift  them  up  and  take  them  across !  "  he  re 
peated,  looking  into  Mr.  Kirkbright's  face,  and  speaking 
the  words  to  him  with  warm  energy.  "  They  are  wait 
ing  —  so  many  of  them  !  They  are  sinking  down  —  so 
many  !  They  want  to  be  lifted  through.  They  want  — 
and  they  want  terribly  —  a  place  of  safety  on  the  other 
side.  Go  down  into  the  river  of  temptation,  and  hard 
ship,  and  sin,  and  help  them  up  out  of  it,  Christopher. 
Take  them  up  t>ut  of  their  cruel  conditions ;  make  a 
place  for  some  of  them  to  begin  over  again  in  ;  for  some 
of  them  to  rest  in,  once  in  a  while,  and  take  courage. 
Why  shouldn't  there  be  cities  of  refuge,  now,  Kirk- 
bright  ?  Men  are  mapping  out  towns  for  their  own  gain, 
all  over  the  land,  wherever  a  water  power  or  a  railroad 
gives  the  chance  for  one  to  grow ;  why  not  build  a  Hope 
for  the  hopeless  ?  Nowhere  on  earth  could  that  be  done 
as  it  could  in  our  own  land  !  " 

"  A  City  of  Refuge !  "  Kirkbright  repeated  the 
words  gravely,  earnestly ;  like  those  of  some  message  of 
an  angel  of  the  Lord,  that  sounded  with  self-attested 
authority  in  his  ears. 


166  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

After  a  pause,  in  which  his  thought  followed  out  the 
word  of  suggestion  into  a  swift  dream  of  possible  fulfill 
ment,  he  said  to  his  companion,  — 

"  I  believe  there  was  nothing  in  that  old  Jewish  econ 
omy,  Vireo,  that  was  not  given  as  a  '  pattern  of  things  ' 
that  should  be.  That  whole  Old  Testament  is  a  type 
and  prophecy  of  the  kingdom  coming.  Only  it  was  but 
the  first  Adam.  It  was  given  right  into  the  very  condi 
tions  that  illustrated  its  need.  It  would  have  meant 
nothing,  given  into  a  society  of  angels.  Yet  because  men 
were  not  angels,  but  very  mortal  and  sinful  men,  we  of 
to-day  must  fling  contempt  upon  the  Myth  of  the  Salva 
tion  of  God  !  It  will  stand,  for  all  that,  —  that  history 
of  God's  intimacy  with  men.  It  was  lived,  not  told  as  a 
vision,  that  it  might  stand  !  It  was  lived,  to  show  how- 
near,  in  spite  of  sin,  God  came,  and  stayed.  The  second 
coining  shall  be  without  sin  unto  salvation." 

"I'm  not  sure,  Kirkbright,  but  you  ought  to  be  a 
minister." 

"  Not  to  stand  in  a  pulpit.  God  helping  me,  I  mean 
to  be  a  minister.  Wouldn't  a  preacher  be  satisfied  to 
have  studied  a  week  upon  a  sermon,  if  he  knew  that  on 
Sunday,  preaching  it,  he  had  sent  it,  live,  into  one  living 
soul  ?  Fifty-two  souls  a  year,  to  reach  and  save,  — 
would  not  that  be  enough  ?  Well,  then,  every  day  a 
man  might  be  giving  the  Lord's  word  out  somewhere,  in 
some  fashion,  I  think.  He  needn't  wait  for  the  Sundays. 
Everybody  has  a  congregation  in  the  course  of  the  week. 
I  don't  doubt  the  week-day  service  is  often  you  preachers' 
best." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  Hilary  Vireo  replied. 

"  Come  down  into  the  cabin  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Kirk- 
bright.  "  I  want  to  look  up  that  old  pattern.  It  will  tell 
me  something." 


CRISTOFERO.  167 

Down  in  the  cabin  they  seated  themselves  together 
where  they  had  had  many  a  talk  before,  at  a  corner  table 
near  Mr.  Kirkbright's  state-room  door.  Out  of  the  state 
room  he  had  brought  his  Bible. 

He  got  hold  of   one  word  in   that  old  ordination,  - 
"  unawares.41 

"  '  He  that  doeth  it  unawares,'  "  he  repeated,  holding 
the  Bible  with  his  finger  between  the  half-shut  leaves,  at 
that  thirty-fifth  chapter  of  Numbers.  "  How  that  re 
minds  of,  and  connects  with,  the  Atoning  Prayer, — 
'  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !  '  4  Sins, 
negligences,  ignorances  ; '  how  they  shade  and  change 
into  each  other !  If  all  the  mistakes  could  be  forgiven 
and  set  right,  how  much  evil,  virulent  and  unmixed, 
Tfould  there  be  left  in  the  world,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"  Not  more  than  there  was  before  the  mistakes  began," 
replied  Vireo.  "  Like  the  Arabian  genie,  the  monster 
would  be  drawn  down  from  its  horrible  expansion  to  a 
point  again,  —  the  point  of  a  possibility  ;  the  serpent 
suggestion  of  evil  choice.  When  God  has  done  his  work 
of  forgiving,  there  is  where  it  will  be,  I  think  ;  and  the 
Son  of  the  woman  shall  set  his  heel  upon  its  head." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  what  lies  behind  this,"  said  Mr. 
Kirkbright.  "  c  He  shall  abide  in  it  unto  the  death  of  the 
high-priest,'  and  after  that,  4  the  slayer  shall  return  into 
the  land  of  his  possession.'  That  might  almost  seem 
to  point  to  the  old  sacrificial  idea  ;  the  atonement  by 
death.  I  cannot  rest  in  that.  I  wish  I  could  see  its 
whole  meaning,  —  for  meaning  it  must  have*  and  a 
meaning  of  life." 

"  A  temporary  ministry  ;  a  limited  exile  ;  the  one  the 
measure  of  the  other,"  said  Hilary  Vireo,  slowly  think 
ing  it  out,  and  taking  the  book  from  the  hand  of  his 
friend,  to  look  over  the  words  themselves,  as  he  did  so. 


168  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  The  glory  is  in  the  promise :  '  he  shall  return  into 
the  land  of  his  possession.'  His  life  shall  be  given  back 
to  him,  —  all  that  it  was  meant  to  be.  It  shall  be  "kept 
open  for  him,  till  the  time  of  his  banishment  is  over. 
Meanwhile,  over  even  this  period  is  a  holy  providing,  an 
anointed  commission  of  grace." 

"  But  hear  this,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  Epistle 
to  the  Hebrews,  "  and  put  the  suggestions  alongside.  All 
but  God's  final  and  eternal  best  is  transitional.  '  They 
truly  were  many  priests;  because  they  were  not  suffered 
to  continue  by  reason  of  death.  But  this  man,  because 
He  continueth  ever,  hath  an  unchangeable  priesthood. 
Wherefore  He  is  able  also  to  save  them  to  the  uttermost, 
that  come  to  God  by  Him. '  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  to 
think  about  that  saving  to  the  uttermost  ?  Not  a  scrap 
of  blessed  possibility  forfeited,  lost  ?  All  gathered  up, 
restored,  put  into  our  hands  again,  from  the  redeeming 
hands  of  Christ?  Backward  and  forward,  through  all 
that  was  irretrievable  to  us  ;  sought,  and  traced,  and 
found,  and  brought  back  with  rejoicing ;  the  whole  house 
swept,  until  not  one  silver  piece  is  missing.  That  is  the 
return  into  the  land  of  our  possession.  That  is  God's 
salvation,  and  his  gospel !  That  is  what  shall  come  to 
pass.  Not  yet ;  not  while  we  are  only  under  the  lesser 
ministry  ;  but  when  that  priesthood  over  the  time  of  our 
waiting  ends,  and  we  have  believed  unto  the  full  appear 
ing  of  the  Lord  !  " 

The  speaker's  face  flushed  and  glowed  ;  Hilary  Vireo, 
always  glad  and  strong  in  look  and  bearing,  was  grandly 
joyful  when  the  power  of  the  gospel  he  had  to  preach 
came  upon  him  ;  the  gospel  of  a  full,  perfect,  and  un 
stinted  hope. 

"  Is  that  what  you  tell  your  simple  people  ?  "   asked 


CRISTOFERO.  169 

Christopher  Kirkbright,  fixing  deeply  eager  eyes  upon 
him. 

"  Yes  ;  just  that.  In  simplest  words,  changed  and  re 
peated  often.  It  is  the  whole  burden  of  my  message. 
What  other  message  is  there,  to  men's  souls  ?  '  Repent, 
and  receive  the  remission  of  your  sins  ! '  Build  your  city 
of  refuge,  Mr.  Kirkbright,  and  show  them  a  beginning  of 
the  fulfillment." 

Whist  and  euchre  tables  not  far  off  were  breaking  up, 
just  before  lunch,  with  laughter  and  raised  voices.  Ladies 
were  coming  down  from  the  deck.  In  the  stir,  Mr.  Vireo 
rose  and  went  away.  Christopher  Kirkbright  carried  his 
Bible  back  into  his  state-room,  and  shut  the  door. 


170  THE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

CHAPTER    XII. 

LETTEKS  AtfD  LINKS. 

npHAT  same  September  morning,  Miss  Euplirasia, 
-*-  sitting  in  her  pretty  corner  room  at  Mrs.  George- 
son's,  —  just  returned  to  her  city  life  from  the  rest  and 
sweetness  of  a  country  summer,  —  had  letters  brought  to 
her  door. 

The  first  was  in  a  thin,  strong,  blue  envelope,  with  Lon 
don  and  Liverpool  postmarks,  and  "  per  Steamer  Cala 
bria,"  written  up  in  the  corner,  business-wise,  with  the 
date,  and  a  dash  underneath.  This  she  opened  first,  for 
the  English  postmarks,  associated  with  that  handwriting, 
gave  her  a  sudden  thrill  of  bewildered. surprise  :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  SISTER,  —  Within  a  very  few  days  after 
this  will  reach  you,  I  hope  myself  to  land  in  America, 
and  to  see  if,  after  all  these  years,  you  and  I  can  do  some 
thing  about  a  home  together.  We  learn  one  good  of  long 
separations,  by  what  we  get  of  them  in  this  world.  We 
can't  help  beginning  again,  if  not  actually  where  we  left 
off,  at  least  with  the  thought  we  left  off  at,  'live  and  fresh 
in  our  hearts.  The  thought,  I  mean,  as  regards  each 
other  ;  we  have  both  got  some  thoughts  uppermost  by 
this  time,  doubtless,  that  we  had  not  lived  to  then.  At 
any  rate,  I  have,  who  had  ten  years  ago  only  the  notions 
and  dreams  of  twenty-one.  I  come  straight  to  you  with 
them,  just  as  I  went  from  you,  dear  elder  sister,  with 
your  love  and  blessing  upon  me,  into  the  great,  working 
world. 


LETTERS   AND   LINKS.  171 

"  Send  a  line  to  meet  me  in  New  York  at  Frazer  and 
Doubleday's,  and  let  me  know  your  exact  whereabouts.  I 
found  Sherrett  here,  and  had  a  run  to  Manchester  with 
him  to  see  Amy.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  can't  believe 
when  I  do  see  it,  —  Mary's  baby  married  and  housekeep 
ing  !  I'm  glad  you  are  my  elder,  Effie  ;  I  shall  not  see 
much  difference  in  you.  Thirty-one  and  forty-three  will 
only  have  come  nearer  together.  And  you  are  sure  to  be 
what  only  such  fresh-souled  women  as  you  can  be  at 
forty-three." 

With  this  little  touch  of  loving  compliment  the  letter 
ended. 

Miss  Euphrasia  got  up  and  walked  over  to  her  toilet- 
glass.  Do  you  think,  with  all  her  outgoing  goodness,  she 
had  not  enough  in  her  for  this,  of  that  sweet  woman-feel 
ing  that  desires  a  true  beauty-blossoming  for  each  good 
season  of  life  as  it  comes  ?  A  pure,  gentle  showing,  in 
face  and  voice  and  movement,  of  all  that  is  lovely  for  a 
woman  to  show,  and  that  she  tells  one  of  God's  own 
words  by  showing,  if  only  it  be  true,  and  not  a  putting 
on  of  falseness  ? 

If  Miss  Euphrasia  had  not  cared  what  she  would  seem 
like  in  the  eyes  as  well  as  to  the  heart  of  this  brother 
coming  home,  there  would  have  been  something  wanting 
to  her  of  genuine  womanhood.  Yet  she  had  gone  daily 
about  her  Lord's  business,  thinking  of  that  first ;  not 
stopping  to  watch  the  graying  or  thinning  of  hairs,  or  the 
gathering  of  life-lines  about  eyes  and  mouth,  or  studying 
how  to  replace  or  smooth  or  disguise  anything.  She  let 
her  life  write  itself ;  she  only  made  all  fair,  according  to 
the  sense  of  true  grace  that  was  in  her  ;  fair  as  she  could, 
with  that  which  remained.  She  had  neither  neglected, 


172  THE   OTHER   GIBLS. 

nor  feverishly  contrived  and  worried  ;  and  so  at  forty- 
three  she  was  just  what  Christopher,  with  his  Scotch 
second-sight,  beheld  her ;  what  she  beheld  herself  now, 
as  she  went  to  look  at  her  face  in  the  glass,  and  to  guess 
what  he  would  think  of  it. 

She  saw  a  picture  like  this  :  — 

Soft,  large  eyes,  with  no  world-harass  in  them ;  little 
curves  imprinted  at  the  corners  that  may  be  as  beautiful 
in  later  age  as  lip-dimples  are  in  girlhood  ;  a  fair,  broad 
forehead,  that  had  never  learned  to  frown ;  lines  about 
mouth  and  chin,  in  sweet,  honest  harmony  with  the 
record  of  the  eyes  ;  no  strain,  no  distortion  of  conscious 
ness  grown  into  haggard  wornness ;  a  fine,  open,  con 
tented  play  of  feature  had  wrought  over  all  like  a  charm 
of  sunshine,  to  soften  and  brighten  continually.  Her 
hair  had  been -golden-brown  ;  there  was  plenty  of  it  still ; 
it  had  kept  so  much  of  the  gold  that  it  was  now  like  a 
tender  mist  through  which  the  light  flashes  and  smiles. 
Of  all  color-changes,  this  is  the  rarest. 

Miss  Euphrasia  smiled  at  her  own  look.  "It  is  the 
home-face,  I  guess ;  Christie  will  know  it."  Smiling,  she 
showed  white  edges  of  perfect  teeth. 

"  What  a  silly  old  thing  I  am  ! "  she  said,  softly  ;  and 
she  blushed  up  and  looked  prettier  yet. 

"  Why,  I  will  not  be  such  a  fool ! "  she  exclaimed, 
then,  really  indignant ;  and  sat  down  to  read  her  second 
letter,  which  she  had  half  forgotten  :  — 

"  BRICKFIELD  FARMS,  (near  Tillington),  Maine. 

"  DEAB  Miss  EUPHRASIA,  —  I  have  not  written  to 
you  since  we  left  Con  way,  because  there  seemed  so  little 
really  to  trouble  you  with ;  but  your  kind  letter  coming 
the  other  day  made  me  feel  as  if  I  must  have  a  talk  with 


.CHRISTIE  \VILL  KNOW  IT.' 


LETTERS  AND   LINKS.  173 

you,  and  perhaps  tell  you  something  which  I  did  not  fully 
tell  you  before.  We  left  our  address  with  Mr.  Dill, 
although  except  you,  I  hardly  know  of  anybody  from 
whom  a  letter  would  be  likely  to  come.  Isn't  it  strange, 
how  easily  one  may  slip  aside  and  drop  out  of  every 
thing  ?  We  heard  of  this  place  from  some  people  who 
had  been  to  Sebago  Lake  and  Pleasant  Mountain,  and 
up  from  there  across  the  country  to  Gorham,  and  so 
round  to  Conway  through  the  Glen. 

"  Mother  was  not  well  at  Conway  ;  indeed,  dear  Miss 
Euphrasia,  she  is  more  ill,  perhaps,  than  I  dare  to  think. 
She  is  very  weak  ;  I  dread  another  move,  and  the  winter 
is  so  near  !  May  be  the  pleasant  October  weather  will 
build  her  up  ;  at  any  rate,  we  must  stay  here  until  she  is 
much  better.  We  have  found  such  good,  kind,  plain 
people  !  I  will  tell  you  presently  how  nice  it  is  for  us, 
and  the  plans  I  have  been  able  to  make  for  the  present. 
It  has  been  a  very  expensive  summer  ;  we  have  moved 
about  so  much ;  and  in  all  the  places  where  we  have  been 
before,  the  board  has  been  so  high.  At  Lebanon  and 
Sharon  it  was  dreadful ;  I  really  had  to  worry  mother  to 
get  away  ;  and  then  Stowe  was  not  much  better,  and  at 
Jefferson  the  air  was  too  bracing.  At  Crawford's  it  was 
lovely,  but  the  bill  was  fearful !  So  we  drifted  dowii, 
till  wr»  finished  August  in  Conway,  and  heard  of  this.  I 
wish  we  had  known  of  it  at  the  beginning ;  but  then  I 
suppose  it  would  not  have  suited  mother  for  all  summer. 

" 1  had  a  great  worry  at  Sharon,  Miss  Euphrasia,  and 
it  has  grown  worse  since.  I  can't  help  being  afraid 
mother  has  been  dreadfully  cheated.  We  got  acquainted 
with  some  people  there ;  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farron  Saft- 
leigh,  rkih  Westerners,  who  made  a  good  deal  of  show  of 
everything;  money,  and  talk,  and  conjugal  devotion,  and 


174  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

friendship.  Mrs.  Saftleigli  came  a  great  deal  to  mother's 
room,  and  gave  her  all  the  little  chat  of  the  place,  —  I'm 
afraid  I  don't  amuse  mother  myself  as  much  as  I  ought, 
but  some  things  do  seem  so  tiresome  to  tell  over,  when 
you've  seen  more  than  enough  of  them  yourself,  —  and 
she  used  to  take  her  out  to  drive  nearly  every  day. 

"  Well,  it  seemed  that  Mr.  Saftleigli  had  gone  out 
West  only  six  years  ago,  and  had  made  all  his  money 
since,  in  land  and  railroad  business.  Mrs.  Saftleigh  said 
that  '  whatever  Farron  touched  was  sure  to  double.'  She 
meant  money  ;  but  I  thought  of  our  perplexities  when 
she  said  it,  and  he  certainly  has  managed  to  double  them.  • 
He  went  to  New  York  two  or  three  times  while  we  were 
at  the  Springs ;  he  was  transacting  railroad  business  ; 
getting  stock  taken  up  in  the  new  piece  of  road  laid  out 
from  Latterend  to  Donnowhair  ;  and  he  was  at  the  head 
of  a  company  that  had  bought  up  all  the  land  along  the 
route.  '  Sure  to  sell  at  enormous  profits  any  time  after 
the  railroad  was  opened.'  Poor  mother  got  so  feverish 
about  it !  She  didn't  see  why  our  little  money  shouldn't 
be  doubled  as  well  as  other  people's.  And  then  she  cried 
so  about  being  left  a  widow,  with  nobody  out  in  the 
world  to  get  a  share  of  anything  for  her  ;  and  Mrs.  Saft 
leigh  used  to  tell  her  that  such  work  was  just  what 
friends  were  made  for,  and  it  was  so  providential  that  she 
had  met  her  here  just  now ;  and  she  was  always  calling 
her  '  sweet  Mrs.  Argenter.' 

"  Nobody  could  help  it ;  mother  worried  herself  sick, 
when  I  begged  her  to  wait  till  we  could  come  home  and 
consult  some  friend  we  knew.  ;  The  chance  would  be 
lost  forever,'  she  said  ;  '  and  who  could  be  kinder  than  the 
Saftleighs,  or  could  know  half  so  much?  Mr.  Farron 
Saftleigh  risked  his  own  money  in  it.'  And  at  last,  she 


LETTERS  AND   LINKS.  175 

wrote  home  and  had  her  Dorbury  mortgage  sold,  and 
paid  eight  thousand  dollars  of  it  to  Mr.  Saftleigh,  for 
shares  in  the  railroad,  and  land  in  Donnowhair.  And, 
dear  Miss  Euphrasia,  that  is  all  we've  got  now,  except 
just  a  few  hundred  dollars  on  deposit  in  the  Continental, 
and  the  other  four  thousand  of  the  mortgage,  that  mother 
put  into  Manufacturers'  Insurance  stock,  to  pacify  me.  If 
the  land  doesn't  sell  out  there  in  six  months,  as  Mr.  Saft 
leigh  says  it  will,  I  don't  know  where  any  more  income 
rr  us  is  to  come  from. 
"  I  am  saving  all  I  can  here,  for  the  winter  must  cost. 
'^  You  would  laugh  if  you  knew  how  I  am  saving  !  I  am 
helping  Mrs.  Jeffords  do  her  work,  and  she  doesn't  charge 
me  any  board,  and  so  I  lay  up  the  money  without  letting 
mother  know  it.  I  don't  feel  as  if  that  were  quite  right, 
—  or  comfortable,  at  least ;  but  after  all,  why  shouldn't 
she  be  cheated  a  little  bit  the  other  way,  if  it  is  possible  ? 
That  is  why  I  hope  we  shall  be  here  all  through  October. 
"  We  are  having  lovely  weather  now ;  not  a  sign  of 
frost.  Although  this  place  is  so  far  north,  it  is  sheltered 
by  great  hills,  and  seems  to  lie  under  the  lee,  both  ways, 
of  high  mountain  ranges,  so  that  the  cold  does  not  really 
set  in  very  early.  It  is  a  curious  place.  I  wish  I  had 
left  room  to  tell  you  more  about  it.  There  is  a  great 
level  basin,  around  which  slope  the  uplands,  rising  farther 
and  farther  on  every  side  except  the  south,  until  you  get 
among  the  real  mountain  regions.  On  these  slopes  are 
the  farms ;  the  Jeffords',  and  the  Applebees',  and  the 
Patch ons',  and  the  Stilphins'.  Aren't  they  quaint,  com 
fortable  old  country  names  ?  I  think  they  only  have  such 
names  among  farmers.  The  name  of  the  place,  —  or 
rather  neighborhood,  for  I  don't  know  where  the  place 
actually  is  —  there  are  three  places,  and  they  are  all  four 


176  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

or  five  miles  off  —  Mill  Village,  and  Pemunk,  and  San- 
don  ;  the  name  of  the  neighborhood,  —  Brickfield  Farms, 
comes  from  there  having  been  brickmaking  done  here  at 
one  time  ;  but  it  was  given  up.  The  man  who  owned  it 
got  in  debt,  and  failed,  I  believe  ;  and  nobody  has  taken 
hold  of  it  again,  because  it  is  so  far  from  lines  of  trans 
portation  ;  but  there  are  some  cottages  about  the  foot  of 
Cone  Hill,  where  the  laborers  used  to  live ;  and  a  big, 
queer,  old  red  brick  house,  that  looks  as  if  it  were  walk 
ing  up  stairs,  —  built  on  flat,  natural  steps  of  the  rock, 
and  so  climbing  up,  room  behind  room,  with  steps  inside 
to  correspond.  I  have  liked  so  much  to  go  through  it, 
and  imagine  stories  about  it,  though  all  the  story  there  is,' 
is  that  of  Mr.  Flavius  Josephus  Browne,  the  man  of  the 
brick  enterprise,  who  built  it  in  this  odd  way,  and  prob 
ably  imagined  a  story  for  himself  that  he  never  lived  out 
in  it,  because  his  money  and  his  business  came  to  an  end. 
How  strange  it  is  that  work  doesn't  always  make  money, 
and  that  it  takes  so  much  combination  to  make  anything 
worth  while  !  I  wonder  that  even  men  know  just  what 
to  do.  And  as  for  women,  —  why,  when  they  take  to 
elbowing  men  out,  what  will  it  all  come  to  ? 

"  I  have  written  on,  until  I  have  written  off  some  of 
my  heavy  feelings  that  I  began  with.  If  I  could  only 
talk  to  you,  dear  Miss  Euphrasia,  I  think  they  would  all 
go.  But  I  will  not  trouble  you  any  longer  now ;  1  am 
quite  ashamed  of  the  great  packet  this  will  make  when  it 
is  folded  up.  But  you  told  me  to  let  you  know  all  abor, 
myself,  and  I  can't  help  minding  such  an  injunction  im 
that  I 

"  Yours  gratefully  and  affectionately  always, 

ABGENTER." 


LETTERS   AND   LINKS.  177 

Miss  Kirkbright  had  not  read  this  straight  through 
without  a  pause.  Two  or  three  times  she  had  let  her 
hands  drop  to  her  lap  with  the  letter  in  them,  and  sat 
thinking.  When  she  came  to  what  Sylvie  said  about  her 
"  laughing  to  know  how  she  had  been  saving,"  Miss  Eu- 
phrasia  stopped,  not  to  laugh,  but  to  wipe  tears  from  her 
eyes. 

"  The  poor,  dear,  brave  little  soul !  "  she  said  to  her 
self.  "  And  that  blessed  Mrs.  Jeffords,  —  to  let  her 
think  she  is  earning  her  board  with  ironing  sheets,  per 
haps,  and  washing  dishes  !  Km  !  " 

That  last  unspellable  sound  was  a  half  choke  and  half 
chuckle,  that  Miss  Euphrasia  surprised  herself  in  making 
out  of  the  sudden,  mixed  impulse  to  sob,  and  laugh,  and 
to  catch  somebody  in  her  arms  and  kiss  that  wasn't  there. 

"  If  I  were  an  angel,  I  suppose  I  could  wait,"  she  went 
on  saying  to  herself  after  that.  "  Bat  even  for  them,  it 
must  be  hard  work  some  times.  And  so,  —  how  the 
great  Reasons  Why  flash  upon  one  out  of  one's  own  lit 
tle  experience! — of  that  wonderful,  blessed  Day,  when 
all  shall  be  made  right,  the  angels  in  heaven  know  not, 
neither  the  Son,  but  the  Father  only  !  The  Lord  cannot 
even  trust  the  pure  human  that  is  in  Himself  to  dwell, 
separately,  upon  that  End  which  is  to  be,  but  may  not  be 
yet!" 

I  do  not  suppose  anything  whatever  could  come  into 
Miss  Euphrasia's  life,  or  touch  her  with  its  circumstance, 
that  she  did  not  straightway  read  in  it  the  wider  truth 
beyond  the  letter.  She  was  a  Swedenborgian,  not  after 
Swedenborg,  but  by  the  living  gift  itself.  Her  insight 
was  no  separate  thing,  taken  up  and  used  now  and  then, 
of  a  purpose.  It  was  as  different  from  that  as  eyes  are 
from  spectacles.  She  could  not  help  her  little  sermons. 
12 


178  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

They  preached  themselves  to  her  and  in  her,  continually. 
So,  if  we  go  along  with  her,  we  must  take  her  with  her 
interpretations.  Some  friend  said  of  her  once,  that  she 
was  a  life  with  marginal  notes  ;  and  the  notes  were  the 
larger  part  of  it. 

But  Miss  Euphrasia  found  a  postscript,  presently,  to 
Sylvie's  letter,  written  hurriedly  on  the  other  side  of  the 
last  leaf  ;  as  if  she  had  made  haste,  before  she  should 
lose  courage  and  change  her  mind  about  saying  it :  — 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  possible  to  find  any  sort  of 
place  in  Boston  where  I  could  do  something  to  help  pay, 
this  winter,  —  and  will  you  try  for  me  ?  I  could  sew,  or 
do  little  things  about  a  house,  or  read  or  write  for  some 
body.  I  could  help  in  a  nursery,  or  teach,  some  hours  in 
a  day,  —  hours  when  mother  likes  to  be  quiet ;  and  she 
would  not  know." 

This  was  essential.     "  Mother  must  not  know." 

The  finding  of  this  postscript  drove  out  of  Miss  Euphra- 
sia's  mind  another  thought  that  had  suddenly  come  into 
it  as  she  turned  the  letter  over  in  her  fingers.  It  was 
some  minutes  before  she  went  back  to  it;  minutes  in 
which  she  was  quite  absorbed  with  simple  suggestions  and 
peradventures  in  Sylvie's  behalf. 

But — "Brickfield  Farms?  Sandon  ?  Josephus 
Browne."  When  had  she  heard  those  names  before  ? 
What  hopeless  piece  of  property  was  it  she  had  heard 
her  brother-in-law  speak  of  long  ago,  —  somewhere  down 
East,  —  where  there  were  old  kilns  and  clay-pits  ?  Some 
thing  that  had  come  into  or  passed  through  his  hands  for 
a  debt  ? 

"  There  is  a  great  tangling  of  links  here.  What  are 
they  shaken  into  my  fingers  for,  I  wonder?  What  is 
there  here  to  be  tied,  or  to  be  unraveled?  " 


LETTERS  AND   LINKS.  179 

For  she  believed  firmly,  always,  that  things  did  not 
happen  in  a  jumble,  however  jumbled  they  might  seem. 
Though  .she  could  scarcely  keep  two  thoughts  together  of 
the  many  crowded  ones  that  had  come  to  her,  one  upon 
another,  this  strange  morning,  she  was  sure  the  Lord 
knew  all  about  it,  and  that  He  had  not  sent  them  upon 
her  in  any  real  confusion.  She  knew  that  there  was  no 
precipitance  —  no  inconsequence  —  with  Him. 

"  They  are  threads  picked  out  for  some  work  that  He 
will  do,"  she  said,  as  she  tucked  her  brother's  letter  into 
a  low,  broad  basket  beside  the  white  and  rose  and  violet 
wools  with  which  she  was  at  odd  minutes  crocheting  a 
dainty  footspread  for  an  invalid  friend,  and  put  the  other 
in  her  pocket. 

"  Now  I  will  tie  my  bonnet  on,  and  go,  as  I  had 
meant,  to  see  Desire.  That,  also,  is  a  piece  of  this  same 
morning." 

Miss  Kirkbright,  likewise,  watched  and  learned  a  story 
that  told  and  repeated  itself  as  it  went  along,  of  a  House 
that  was  building  bit  by  bit,  and  of  life  that  lay  about  it. 
Only  hers  was  the  house  the  Lord  builds;  and  the 
stories  of  it,  and  all  the  sentences  of  the  story,  were  the 
things  He  daily  puts  together. 


180  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
RACHEL  FROKE'S  TROUBLE. 

DESIRE  was  out.  She  had  gone  down  to  Neighbor 
Street,  to  see  Luclarion  Grapp. 

Luclarion  had  a  Home  there  now ;  a  place  where  girls 
and  women  came  and  went,  and  always  found  a  rest  and 
a  welcome,  to  stay  a  night,  or  a  week,  or  as  long  as  they 
needed,  provided  only,  that  they  entered  into  the  work 
and  spirit  of  the  house  while  they  did  stay. 

Luclarion  still  sold  her  good,  cheap  white  loaves  and 
brown,  her  muffins  and  her  crumpets  ;  and  she  had  what 
she  called  her  "  big  baking  room,"  where  a  dozen  women 
could  work  at  the  troughs  and  the  kneaders  and  the 
ovens  ;  and  in  this  bakery  they  learned  an  honest  trade 
that  would  stand  them  in  stead  for  self-support,  whether 
to  furnish  a  commodity  for  sale,  or  in  homes  where  daily 
bread  must  be  put  together  as  well  as  prayed  for. 

"  You  can  do  something  now  that  all  the  world  wants 
done  ;  that's  as  good  as  a  gold  mine,  and  ever  so  much 
better,"  said  Luclarion  Grapp. 

Then  she  had  a  laundry.  From  letting  her  lodgers 
wash  and  iron  for  themselves,  to  put  their  scanty  ward 
robes  into  the  best  condition  and  repair,  she  went  on  to 
showing  them  nice  work  and  taking  it  in  for  them  to  do  j 
until  now  there  were  some  dozen  families  who  sent  her 
weekly  washing,  three  to  five  dollars'  worth  each  ;  and  foi 
ten  months  in  the  year  a  hundred  and  eighty  dollars  were 
her  average  receipts. 

Down  at  "  The  Neighbors," —  as  from  the  name  of  the 


181 

street  and  the  spirit  and  growth  of  the  thing  it  had  come 
to  be  called,  —  they  had  "  Evenings ;  "  when  friends  of 
the  place  came  in  and  made  it  pleasant ;  brought  books 
and  pictures,  flowers  and  fruit,  and  made  a  little  treat  of 
it  for  mind  and  heart  and  body.  It  was  some  plan  for 
one  of  these  that  had  taken  Desire  and  Hazel  to  Miss 
Grapp's  to-day. 

Miss  Euphrasia's  first  feeling  was  disappointment.  It 
seemed  as  if  her  morning  were  going  a  wee  wrong  after 
all.  But  her  second  thought  —  that  it  was  surely  all  in 
the  day's  work,  and  had  happened  so  by  no  mistake  — 
took  her  in,  with  a  cheery  and  really  expectant  face, 
to  Rachel  Froke's  gray  parlor,  to  "  sit  her  clown  a  five 
minutes,  and  rest."  fehe  confidently  looked  for  her  busi 
ness  then  to  be  declared  to  her,  since  the  business  she 
thought  she  had  come  upon  was  set  aside. 

"  I  have  had  a  great  mind  to  come  to  thee,"  were  the 
first  words  Rachel  said,  as  her  visitor  seated  herself  in 
the  low  chair,  twin  to  her  own,  which  she  kept  for 
friends.  Rachel  Froke  liked  her  own  ;  but  she  never  felt 
any  special  comfort  comfortably  her  own,  until  she  could 
hold  it  thus  duplicated. 

"  I  have  wanted  for  a  little  while  past  to  talk  to  some 
one,  and  Hapsie  Craydocke  would  not  do.  Everything 
she  knows  shines  so  quickly  out  of  those  small  kind  eyes 
of  hers.  Hapsie  would  have  looked  at  me  in  an  unspeak 
able  way,  and  told  it  all  out  too  soon.  I  have  a  secret, 
Euphrasia,  and  it  troubleth  me  ;  yet  not  very  much  for 
myself  ;  and  I  know  it  need  not  trouble  me  for  anything. 
I  have  a  reason  that  may  make  me  leave  this  place,  — 
for  a  time  at  least  ;  and  I  am  sorry  for  Desire,  for  she 
will  miss  me.  Frendely  can  do  all  that  I  do,  and  she 
hath  the  same  wish  for  everything  at  heart ;  but  then 


182  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

who  would  help  Frendely  ?  She  could  not  get  on  alone  ; 
for  thee  knows  the  house  is  large,  and  Desire  is  always 
very  busy,  with  work  that  should  not  be  hindered.  Can 
thee  think  of  any  way  ?  I  cannot  bear  that  any  uncer 
tain,  trustless  person  should  come  in  here.  There  hath 
never  been  a  common  servant  in  this  house.  Doesn't 
thee  think  the  Lord  hath  some  one  ready  since  He  makes 
my  place  empty  ?  And  how  shall  we  go  rightly  to  find 
out?" 

"  Tell  me  first,  Rachel,  of  your  own  matter.  Is  it  any 
trouble,  —  any  grief  or  pain  ?  " 

Rachel  had  quite  forgot.  The  real  trouble  of  it  was 
this  perplexity  that  she  had  told.  The  rest  of  it  —  that 
she  knew  was  all  right.  She  would  not  call  it  trouble  — 
that  which  she  simply  had  to  wait  and  bear  ;  but  that  in 
which  she  had  to  do,  and  knew  not  just  how  to  "  go 
rightly  about,"  —  it  was  that  she  felt  as  the  disquiet. 

She  smiled,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  breast. 

"The  doctor  calls  it  trouble  —  trouble  here.  But  it 
may  be  helped  ;  and  there  is  a  man  in  Philadelphia  who 
treats  such  ailments  with  great  skill.  My  cousin-in-law, 
Lydia  Froke,  will  receive  me  at  her  house  for  this  win 
ter,  if  I  will  come  and  try  what  he  can  do.  Thee  sees  : 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  go." 

"  And  Desire  knows  nothing  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  tell  the  child,  until  I  saw  my  way  ? 
Now,  can  thee  think  ?  " 

Rachel  Froke  repeated  her  simple  question  with  an 
earnestness  as  if  nothing  were  between  them  at  this  mo 
ment  but  the  one  thing  to  care  for  and  provide.  She 
waited  for  no  word  of  personal  pity  or  sympathy  to  come 
first.  She  had  grown  quite  used  to  this  fact  that  she  had 
faced  for  herself,  and  scarcely  remembered  that  it  must 
be  a  pain  to  Miss  Kirkbright  for  her  sake  to  hear  it. 


RACHEL  FROKE'S  TROUBLE.  183 

It  was  hard  even  for  Miss  Kirkbright  to  feel  it  at  once 
as  a  fact,  looking  in  the  fair,  placid,  smiling  face  that 
spoke  of  neither  complaint  nor  pain  •  nor  fear  ;  though  a 
thrill  had  gone  through  her  at  the  first  word  and  gesture 
which  conveyed  the  terrible  perception,  and  had  made 
her  pale  and  grave. 

"  Must  it  be  a  servant  to  do  mere  servant's  work ;  or 
could  some  nice  young  person,  under  Frendely's  direction, 
relieve  her  of  the  actual  care  that  you  have  taken,  and 
keep  things  in  the  kitchen  as  they  are  ?  " 

"  That  is  precisely  the  best  thing,  if  we  could  be  sure," 
said  Rachel. 

"  Then  I  think  perhaps  I  came  here  with  an  errand 
straight  to  you,  though  I  had  no  knowledge  of  it  in  com 
ing,"  said  Miss  Kirkbright. 

"That  looks  like  the  Lord's  leading,"  said  Rachel 
Froke.  "  There  is  always  some  sign  to  believe  by." 

Miss  Euphrasia  took  out  Sylvie's  letter,  as  the  best 
way  of  telling  the  story,  and  put  it  into  Rachel  Froke's 
hand.  She  did  not  feel  it  any  breach  of  confidence  to  do 
so.  Breach  of  confidence  is  letting  strange  air  in  upon  a 
tender  matter.  The  self -same  atmosphere,  the  self-same 
temperature,  —  these  do  not  harm  or  change  anything. 
It  is  only  widening  graciously  that  which  the  confidence 
came  for,  to  let  it  touch  a  heart  tuned  to  the  celestial  key, 
ready  with  the  same  response  of  understanding.  There 
are  friends  one  can  trust  with  one's  self  so ;  sure  that 
only  by  true  and  inward  channels  the  word,  the  thought, 
shall  pass.  Gossip  —  betrayal  —  sends  from  hand  to 
hand,  from  mouth  to  mouth  ;  tosses  about  our  sacredness, 
or  the  misinterpreted  sign  of  it,  on  the  careless  surface. 
From  heart  to  heart  it  may  be  given  without  disloyalty. 
That  is  the  way  God  Himself  works  round  for  us. 


184  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  It  is  very  clear  to  me,"  said  Rachel  Froke,  folding  up 
tlie  slieets  of  the  letter,  and  putting  them  back  into  their 
envelope.  "  Shall  Desire  read  this  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  It  would  not  be  a  real  thing,  unless  she 
understood." 

So  Desire  had  the  letter  to  read  that  day  when  she 
came  home  ;  and  then  Rachel  Froke  told  her  how  it  was 
that  she  must  go  away  for  a  while  ;  and  Desire  went 
round  to  Miss  Euphrasia's  room  in  the  twilight,  and  gave 
her  back  her  letter,  and  talked  it  all  over  with  her  ;  and 
they  two  next  day  explained  the  most  of  it  to  Hazel. 
It  was  not  needful  that  she  should  know  the  very  whole 
about  Rachel  or  the  Argenters  ;  only  enough  was  said  to 
make  plain  the  real  companionship  that  was  coming,  and 
the  mutual  help  that  it  might  be  ;  enough  of  the  story  to 
make  Hazel  cry  out  joyfully,  —  "  Why,  Desire !  Miss 
Kirkbright !  She's  another  !  She  belongs  !  "  And  then, 
without  such  drawback  of  sadness  as  the  other  two  had 
had  to  feel,  she  caught  them  each  by  a  hand,  and  danced 
them  up  and  down  a  little  dance  before  the  fire  upon  the 
hearth-rug  —  singing,  — 

"Four  of  us  know  the  Muffin-man, 

Five  of  us  know  the  Muffin-man, 

All  of  us  know  the  Muffin-man, 

That  lives  in  Drury  Lane." 


MAVIS  PLACE   CHAPEL.  185 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

MAVIS   PLACE   CHAPEL. 

IT  was  on  the  corner  of  Merle  Street  and  Mavis  Place. 
The  Reverend  Hilary  Vireo,  as  I  have  told  you,  was 
the  minister. 

It  might  have  been  called,  if  anybody  had  thought  of 
it,  "  The  Chapel  of  the  New  Song."  For  it  was  the 
very  gospel  of  hope  and  gladness  that  Hilary  Vireo 
preached  there,  and  had  preached  and  lived  for  twenty 
years,  making  lives  to  sing  that  would  have  moaned. 

"  Haven't  you  a  song  in  your  heart,  somewhere  ?  "  was 
his  word  once,  to  a  man  of  hard  life,  who  came  to  him  in 
a  trouble,  and  telling  him  of  it,  passed  to  a  spiritual  con 
fidence,  such  as  Vireo  drew  out  of  people  without  the 
asking.  At  the  end  of  his  story,  the  man  had  said  that 
"  he  supposed  it  was  as  good  as  he  ought  to  expect ;  he 
hadn't  any  business  to  look  for  better,  and  he  must  just 
bear  it,  fo£  this  life.  He  hoped  there  was  something  after 
wards  for  them  that  could  get  to  it,  but  he  didn't  know." 

"  Aren't  you  glad  of  things,  sometimes  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Vireo.  "  Of  a  pleasant  day,  even,  —  or  a  strong,  fresh 
feeling  in  the  morning?  Don't  you  touch  the  edge  of 
the  great  gladness  that  is  in  the  world,  now  and  then,  in 
spite  of  your  own  little  single  worries  ?  Well,  that's  what 
God  means  ;  and  the  worry  is  the  interruption.  He 
never  means  that.  There's  a  great  song  forever  singing, 
and  we're  all  parts  and  notes  of  it,  if  we  will  just  let  Him 
put  us  in  tune.  What  we  call  trouble  is  only  his  key, 
that  draws  our  heart-strings  truer,  and  brings  them  up 


186  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

sweet  and  even  to  the  heavenly  pitch.  Don't  mind  the 
strain  ;  believe  in  the  note,  every  time  his  finger  touches 
and  sounds  it.  If  you  are  glad  for  one  minute  in  the  day, 
that  is  his  minute ;  the  minute  He  means,  and  works  for." 

The  man  was  a  timer  of  pianofortes.  He  went  away 
with  that  lesson  in  his  heart,  to  come  back  to  him  repeat 
edly  in  his  own  work,  day  by  day.  He  had  been  believ 
ing  in  the  twists  and  stretches  ;  he  began  from  that 
moment  to  believe  in  the  music  touches,  far  apart  though 
they  might  come.  He  lived  from  a  different  centre  ;  the 
growth  began  to  be  according  to  the  life. 

"  It's  queer,"  he  said  once,  long  afterward,  reminding 
Mr.  Vireo  of  what  he  had  spoken  in  the  moment  it  was 
given  through  him,  and  then  forgotten.  "A  man  can  put 
himself  a'most  where  he  pleases.  Into  a  hurt  finger  or 
a  toothache,  till  it  is  all  one  great  pain  with  him  ;  or 
outside  of  that,  into  something  he  cares  for,  or  can  do 
with  his  well  hand,  till  he  gets  rid  of  it  and  forgets  it. 
There's  generally  more  comfort  than  ache,  I  do  suppose, 
if  we  didn't  live  right  in  the  middle  of  the  ache.  But 
you  see,  that's  the  great  secret  to  find  out.  If  ever  we 
do  get  it,  —  complete  ' '  — 

"  Ah,  that's  the  resurrection  and  the  life,"  said  Mr. 
Vireo. 

Among  the  crowd  that  waited  about  the  open  chapel 
doors,  and  through  the  porches,  and  upon  the  stair-ways, 
one  clear,  sunny,  October  morning,  oil  which  the  congre 
gation  would  not  gather  quietly  to  its  pews,  stood  this 
man,  and  many  another  man,  and  woman,  and  little 
child,  to  whom  a  word  from  Hilary  Vireo  was  a  word 
right  out  of  heaven. 

They  would  all  have  a  first  sight  of  him  to-day,  —  his 
first  Sunday  among  them  after  the  whole  summer's 


MAVIS  PLACE   CHAPEL.  187 

absence  in  Europe.  He  might  easily  not  get  into  his 
pulpit  at  all,  but  give  his  gift  in  crumbs,  all  the  way 
along  from  the  street  curb-stones  to  the  aisles  in  the 
church  above,  —  they  waylaid  him  so  to  snatch  at  it  from 
hand,  face,  voice,  as  he  should  come  in.  It  would  not  be 
altogether  unlike  Hilary  Vireo,  if  seeing  things  this  way, 
he  stopped  right  there  amongst  them,  to  deal  out  heart- 
cheer  and  sympathy  right  and  left,  face  to  face,  and  hand 
to  hand,  —  the  Gospel  appointed  for  that  day. 

"  What  a  crowd  there'll  be  in  heaven  about  some 
people  ! "  said  a  tall,  good-looking  man  to  Hilary  Vireo, 
in  an  undertone,  as  he  came  up  the  sidewalk  with  him 
into  the  edge  of  these  waiting  groups. 

•"  May  be.  There'll  be  some  scattering,  I  fancy,  that 
we  don't  look  for.  We  shall  find  all  our  centres  there," 
returned  Mr.  Vireo,  hastily,  as  his  people  closed  about 
him  and  the  hand-shaking  began. 

Christopher  Kirkbright  made  his  way  to  the  stairs,  as 
the  passage  on  one  side  became  cleared  by  the  drifting 
of  the  parish  over  to  the  western  door,  by  which  the  min 
ister  was  entering.  A  little  way  up  he  found  his  sister, 
sitting  with  a  young  woman  in  the  deep  window  ledge  at 
the  turn,  whence  they  could  look  quietly  down  and  watch 
the  scene.  Overhead,  the  heavy  bell  swung  out  slow, 
intermitted  peals,  that  thrilled  down  through  all  the  tim 
bers  of-  the  building,  and  forth  upon  the  crisp  autumn 
air. 

u  My  brother —  Miss  Ledwith,"  said  Miss  Euphrasia, 
introducing  them. 

Desire  Ledwith  looked  up.  The  intensity  that  was  in 
her  gray  eyes  turned  full  into  Christopher  Kirkbright 's 
own.  It  was  like  the  sudden  shifting  of  a  lens  through 
which  sun-rays  were  pouring.  She  had  been  so  absorbed 


188  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

with  watching  and  thinking,  that  her  face  had  grown 
keen  and  earnest  without  her  knowing,  as  it  had  been 
always  wont  to  do  ;  only  it  was  different  from  the  old 
way  in  this,  —  that  while  the  other  had  been  eager,  ask 
ing,  unsatisfied,  this  was  simply  deep,  intent  ;  a  search 
ing  outward,  that  was  answered  and  fed  simultaneously 
from  within  and  behind  ;  it  was  the  transmitted  light  by 
which  the  face  of  Moses  shone,  standing  between  the 
Lord  and  the  people. 

She  was  not  beautiful  now,  any  more  than  she  had 
been  as  a  very  young  girl,  when  we  first  knew  her  ;  in 
feature,  that  is,  and  with  mere  outward  grace  ;  but  her 
earnestness  had  so  shaped  for  itself,  with  its  continual, 
unthwarted  flow,  a  natural  and  harmonious  outlet  in  brow 
and  eyes  ;  in  every  curve  by  which  the  face  conforms  it 
self  to  that  which  genuinely  animates  it,  that  hers  was 
now  a  countenance  truly  radiant  of  life,  hope,  purpose. 
The  small,  thin,  clear  cut  nose,  —  the  lip  corners  dropped 
with  untutored  simplicity  into  a  rest  and  decision  that 
were  better  than  sparkle  and  smile, — the  coolness,  the 
strength,  that  lay  in  the  very  tint  and  tone  of  her  com 
plexion,  —  these  were  all  details  of  character  that  had 
asserted  itself.  It  had  changed  utterly  one  thing  ;  the 
old  knitting  and  narrowing  of  the  forehead  were  gone ; 
instead,  the  eyes  had  widened  their  spaces  with  a  real 
calm  that  had  grown  in  her,  and  their  outer  curves  fell  in 
lines  of  largeness  and  content  toward  the  contour  of  the 
cheeks,  making  an  artistic  harmony  with  them. 

It  was  not  a  face,  so  much  as  a  living  soul,  that  turned 
itself  toward  Miss  Euphrasia's  brother,  as  Miss  Kirk- 
bright  spoke  his  name  and  Desire's. 

For  some  reason,  he  found  himself  walking  into  the 
church  beside  them  afterward,  thinking  oddly  of  the 
etymology  of  that  word,  —  "  introduced." 


MAVIS   PLACE   CHAPEL.  189 

"  Brought  within  ;  behind  the  barriers  ;  made  really 
known.  Effie  gave  me  a  glimpse  of  that  girl,  —  her  self. 
I  don't  think  I  was  ever  so  really  introduced  before." 

He  did  not  know  at  all  who  Miss  Ledwith  was  ;  she 
might  have  been  one  of  the  chapel  protegees ;  from 
Hanover  or  Neighbor  Street,  or  where  not ;  they  all 
looked  nice,  in  their  Sunday  dress ;  those  who  were 
helped  to  dress  were  made  to  look  as  nice  as  anybody. 

Desire  Ledwith  had  on  a  dark  maroon-colored  serge, 
made  very  simply ;  bordered,  I  believe,  with  just  a  little 
roll  binding  of  velvet  around  the  upper  skirt.  Any  shop 
girl  might  have  worn  that ;  any  shop-girl  would  perhaps 
have  been  scarcely  satisfied  to  wear  the  plain  black  hat, 
with  just  one  curly  tip  of  ostrich  feather  tucked  in  where 
the  velvet  band  was  folded  together  around  it. 

Desire  sat  with  her  class  ;  it  was  her  family,  she  said  ; 
her  church-family,  at  any  rate  ;  she  had  chosen  her 
scholars  from  those  who  had  no  parents  to  come  with, 
and  sit  by ;  they  were  all  glad  of  their  home-place 
weekly,  at  her  side. 

Miss  Kirkbright  and  her  brother  went  into  the  minis 
ter's  pew.  Miss  Kirkbright  did  not  usually  come  to  the 
service  ;  the  school,  in  which  she  taught,  met  in  the  after 
noon  ;  but  this  was  Mr.  Vireo's  first  Sunday,  and  his 
friend,  her  brother  Christopher,  had  just  come  home  with 
him  across  the  Atlantic. 

There  was  singing,  in  which  nearly  every  voice  joined  ; 
there  was  praying,  in  which  one  voice  spoke  as  to  a  Pres 
ence  felt  close  beside  ;  and  all  the  people  felt  at  least  that 
he  felt  it,  and  that  therefore  it  must  be  there.  They 
believed  in  it  through  him,  as  we  all  believe  in  it  through 
Christ,  who  is  in  the  bosom  of  the  Father.  That  they 
might  some  time  come  where  he  stood  now,  and  know  as 


190  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

he  knew,  many  of  them  were  simply,  carefully,  daily, 
striving  to  "  do  the  Will." 

He  spoke  to  them  of  "  journey  ings  ; "  of  how  God  was 
everywhere  in  the  whole  earth  ;  of  how  Abraham  had 
the  Lord  with  him,  as  he  travelled  up  through  a  land  he 
knew  not,  as  he  dwelt  in  Padan  Aram,  as  he  crossed  the 
desert  and  came  down  through  the  hill-country  into 
Canaan.  Of  how  the  Lord  met  Jacob  at  Bethel,  when 
he  was  on  his  way  through  strange  places,  to  go  and 
serve  his  uncle  Laban  ;  how  he  went  with  Joseph  into 
Egypt,  and  afterwards  led  out  the  children  of  Israel 
through  forty  years  of  wandering,  showing  them  signs, 
and  comforting  them  all  the  way  ;  how  "  He  leadeth  me  " 
is  still  the  believer's  song,  still  the  heart-meaning  of  every 
human  life. 

"  Whether  we  go  or  stay,  as  to  place,  we  all  move  on  ; 
from  our  Mondays  to  our  Saturdays  ;  from  one  experi 
ence  to  another  ;  and  before  us  and  beside  us,  passes 
always  and  abides  near  that  presence  of  the  Lord.  Do 
you  know  what  "the  Lord  "  means  ?  It  is  the  bread- 
giver  ;  the  feeder ;  the  provider  of  every  little  thing. 
That  is  the  name  of  God  when  He  comes  close  to  human 
ity.  In  the  beginning,  Grod  created  the  heavens  and  the 
earth ;  but  the  Lord  spoke  unto  Adam ;  the  Lord 
appeared  unto  Abraham ;  the  Lord  was  the  God  of 
Israel. 

"  God  is  our  Lord ;  our  daily  leader ;  our  bread-giver, 
from  meal  to  meal,  from  mouthful  to  mouthful.  The 
Angel  of  his  Presence  saves  us  continually.  And  in 
these  latter  days,  the  "Lord  "is  "Christ;"  the  human 
love  of  Him  come  down  into  our  souls,  to  take  away  our 
sins,  —  to  give  us  bread  from  heaven  to  eat ;  to  fulfill  in 
the  inward  kingdom  every  type  and  sign  of  the  old  lead- 


MAVIS  PLACE   CHAPEL.  191 

ing;  through  need  and  toil,  through  strange  places, 
through  tedious  waitings,  through  the  long  wilderness, 
and  over  the  river  into  the  Land  that  is  beautiful  and 
very  far  off." 

The  four  walked  away  from  the  church  together ; 
they  stopped  on  the  corner  of  Borden  Street.  Here 
Desire  and  Mr.  Vireo  would  leave  them, — their  way 
lying  down  the  hill. 

"  I  liked  your"  doctrine  of  the  Lord,"  said  Miss  Euphra- 
sia  to  the  minister.  "  That  is  true  New  Church  inter 
pretation,  as  I  receive  it." 

"  How  can  any  one  help  seeing  it  ?  It  shines  so 
through  the  whole,"  said  Desire. 

"  Leader  and  Giver  ;  it  is  the  one  revelation  of  Scrip 
ture,  from  beginning  to  end,"  said  Mr.  Vireo.  "  4  Come 
forth  into  the  land  that  I  shall  show  thee.'  c  Follow  Me, 
and  I  will  give  unto  you  everlasting  life.'  The  same  call 
in  the  Old  Testament  and  in  the  New." 

"  '  One  Lord,  one  faith,  one  baptism,'  "  repeated  Miss 
Euphrasia. 

"Leading  —  by  the  hand;  giving  —  morsel  by  morsel  " 
said  Mr.  Kirkbright,  emphasizing  the  near  and  dear 

detail. 

"  That-  makes  me  think,"  said  Miss  Euphrasia,  sud 
denly.  "  Desire,"  she  went  on,  without  explaining  why, 
"  we  are  going  up  to  Brickfield  Farms  next  week, 
Christopher  and  I.  Why  shouldn't  you  go  too,  —  and 
bring -her  home,  you  know  ?  " 

As  true  as  she  lived,  Miss  Euphrasia  hadn't  a  thought 
—  whatever  you  may  think  —  of  this  and  that,  or  any 
thing,  when  she  said  it. 

Except  the  simple  fact,  that  it  was  beautiful  October 
weather,  and  that  she  should  like  it,  and  that  Sylvie  and 
Desire  would  get  acquainted. 


192  THE   OTHEK    GIRLS. 

"  It  will  do  you  good.  You'd  better,"  said  Mr.  Vireo, 
kindly.  ' 

Christopher  Kirkbright  said  nothing,  of  course.  There 
was  nothing  for  him  to  say.  He  did  not  think  very 
much.  He  only  had  a  passing  feeling  that  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  see  this  grave-faced  girl  again,  and  to  under 
stand  her,  perhaps,  a  little. 


BONNY  BOWLS.  193 

CHAPTER  XV. 

BONNY  BOWLS. 

great  show  house  at  Pomantic  was  almost  finished. 
The  architect's  and  builder's  cares  were  over.  There 
was  a  stained  glass  window  to  go  in  upon  the  high  second 
landing  of  the  splendid  carved  oak  staircase,  through 
which  gold  and  rose  and  purple  light  should  pour  down 
upon  the  panels  of  the  soft-tinted  walls  and  the  rich  in 
laying  of  the  floors.  There  was  a  little  polishing  of  wal 
nut  work  and  oiling  of  dark  pine  in  kitchen  and  laundry, 
and  the  fastening  on  of  a  few  silver  knobs  and  faucets 
here  and  there,  up-stairs,  remaining  to  be  done  ;  then  it 
would  be  ready  for  the  upholsterer. 

Mr.  Newrich  had  builded  better  than  he  thought; 
thanks  to  the  delicate  taste  and  the  genius  of  his  archi 
tect,  and  the  careful  skill  of  his  contractor.  Pie  was 
proud  of  his  elegant  mansion,  and  fancied  that  it  ex 
pressed  himself,  and  the  glory  that  his  life  had  grown  to. 

Frank  Sunderline  knew  that  it  expressed  him-sQlt ;  for 
he  had  put  himself  —  his  hope,  ids  ambition,  his  sense  of 
right  and  fitness  —  into  every  stroke  and  line.  Now 
that  it  was  done,  it  was  more  his  than  the  man's  who 
paid  the  bills,  —  "  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,"  as  he  ex- 
ultingly  said  to  his  wife.  The  designer  and  the  builder 
had  paid  for  it  out  of  brain  and  heart  and  will,  and  were 
the  real  men  who  had  got  a  new  creation  and  possession 
of  their  own,  though  they  should  turn  their  backs  upon 
their  finished  labor,  and  never  go  within  the  walls  again. 

It  was  a  kind  of  a  Sunday  feeling  with  which  Frank 

13 


194  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Simderline  was  glad,  though  it  was  the  middle  of  the 
week.  The  sense  of  accomplishment  is  the  Sunday  feel 
ing.  It  is  the  very  feeling  in  which  God  Himself  rested ; 
and  out  of  his  own  joy,  bade  all  his  sons  rest  likewise  in 
their  turn,  every  time  that  they  should  end  a  six  days' 
toil. 

Frank  Simderline  had  been  in  Boston  all  the  afternoon, 
making  up  accounts  and  papers  with  his  employer.  He 
came  round  to  Pilgrim  Street  to  tea. 

He  had  got  into  a  way  of  coming  in  to  tell  the  Ingra- 
hams  the  story  of  his  work  as  it  went  on,  at  the  same 
time  that  he  continued  his  friendly  relation  with  their 
own  affairs,  as  always  ready  to  do  any  little  turn  for 
them  in  which  a  man  could  be  of  service.  This  Sunday 
rest  of  his,  —  though  a  busier  day  had  not  gone  over 
his  head  since  the  week  began,  —  must  be  shared  and 
crowned  by  them. 

There  is  no  subtler  test  of  an  unspoken  —  perhaps  an 
unexamined  —  relation  of  a  man  with  his  women  friends, 
than  this  instinctive  turning  with  his  Sabbath  content 
and  rest  to  the  companionship  he  feels  himself  most 
moved  to  when  it  is  in  his  heart.  All  custom,  however 
homely,  grows  out  of  some  reality,  more  than  out  of 
any  mere  convenience  ;  this  is  why  the  Sunday  coming 
of  the  country  lover  means  so  much  more  than  his  com 
mon  comings,  and  sets  an  established  seal  upon  them  all. 

Walking  down  Roulstone  Street,  the  lowering  after 
noon  sun  full  in  his  face  across  the  open  squares,  Frank 
Simderline  thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  have 
Ray  Ingraham  go  out  to  Pomantic  such  an  afternoon 
as  this,  and  see  what  he  had  done  ;  just  now,  while  it 
was  still  his  work,  warm  from  his  hand,  and  before  it  was 
shut  away  from  her  and  him  by  the  Newrich  carpets  and 


BONNY   BOWLS.  195 

curtains  and  china  and  servants  going  in  and  fastening 
the  doors  upon  them. 

He  would  make  a  treat  of  it,  —  a  holiday,  —  if  she 
would  go  ;  he  would  come  and  take  her  with  a  horse  and 
buggy.  He  would  not  ask  her  to  go  with  him  in  the 
cars  and  be  stared  at. 

He  had  never  thought  of  asking  her  to  go  to  ride,  or 
of  showing  her  any  set  "  attention  "  before.  Frank  Sun- 
derline  was  not  one  of  the  young  fellows  who  begin,  and 
begin  in  a  hurry,  at  that  end. 

He  walked  faster,  as  it  came  into  his  head  at  that 
moment;  something  of  the  same  perception  that  would 
come  to  her,  —  if  she  cared  for  this  asking  of  his,  —  came 
to  him  with  the  sudden  suggestion  that  it  was  the  next,  the 
natural  thing  to  do  ;  that  their  friendship  had  grown  so  far 
as  that.  The  story  comes  to  a  man  with  some  such  beau 
tiful,  scarce-anticipated  steps  of  revelation  as  it  does  to  a 
woman,  when  he  takes  his  life  in.  the  true,  whole,  patient 
order,  and  does  not  go  about  to  make  some  pretty  sham 
of  living  before  he  has  done  any  real  living  at  all. 

Yes  ;  he  would  ask  her  to  ride  out  to  Pomantic  with 
him  to-morrow ;  and  he  thought  she  would  go. 

He  liked  her  looks,  to-night ;  he  looked  at  her  with 
this  plan  in  his  thoughts,  and  it  lighted  her  up  ;  he  was 
conscious  of  his  own  notice  of  her,  and  of  what  it  had 
grown  to  in  him,  insensibly,  knowing  her  so  well  and 
long.  He  analyzed,  or  tried  to  analyze,  his  rest  and 
pleasure  in  her  ;  the  reason  why  all  she  did  and  wore  and 
said  had  such  a  sweet  and  winning  fitness  to  him.  What 
was  it  that  made  her  look  so  different  from  other  girls, 
and  yet  so  nice  ? 

"  I  like  the  way  you  dress,  Ray  ;  you  and  Dot ;  "  he 
said  to  her,  when  tea  was  over  and  taken  away,  and  she 


196  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

was  replacing  the  cloth  and  setting  the  sewing-lamp 
down  upon  the  table.  "  You  don't  snarl  yourselves  up. 
I  can't  bear  a  tangle  of  things." 

Ray  colored. 

"  You  mean  skirts,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  laughing. 
"  We  can't  afford  two  apiece,  at  a  time.  So  we  have 
taken  to  aprons." 

It  was  a  very  simple  expedient,  and  yet  it  came 
near  enough  to  custom  to  avoid  a  strait  and  insuffi 
cient  look.  They  wore  plain  black  cashmere  dresses, 
plaited  in  at  the  waist,  and  belted  to  their  pretty  figures  ; 
over  these,  round,  full  aprons,  tied  behind  with  broad, 
hemmed  bows.  They  were  of  cross-barred  muslin,  for 
every  day,  —  cheap  and  pretty  and  fresh ;  black  silk 
ones  replaced  them  upon  serious  occasions.  This  was  their 
house  wear  ;  in  the  street  they  contented  themselves  with 
their  plain  basquines  ;  and  I  think  if  anybody  missed 
the  bunches  and  festoons,  it  was  only  as  Frank  Sunder- 
line  said,  with  an  unexplained  impression  of  the  absence 
of  a  "  snarl." 

"  There's  one  thing  certin,"  put  in  Mrs.  Ingraham. 
"  Women  can't  be  dolls  and  live  women  too.  I  don't 
ever  want  anything  on  that'll  hender  me  from  goin'  right 
into  whatever  there  is  to  be  gone  into.  It's  cloe's  that 
makes  all  the  diffikelty  nowadays.  Young  women  can't 
do  housework  because  of  their  cloe's  ;  'tisn't  because  they 
ain't  as  strong  as  their  grandmothers  ;  their  grandmothers 
didn't  try  to  wear  a  load  and  move  one  too.  Folks  that 
live*  a  little  nicer  than  common,  and  keep  girls,  don't 
have  more  than  five  hours  to  their  day ;  the  rest  of  the 
time,  they're  dressed  up  ;  and  that  means  tied  up.  They 
can't  see  to  their  girls  ;  they  grow  helplesser  all  the  time, 
and  the  help  grows  sozzlier  ;  and  so  it  comes  to  sauciness, 


BONNY   BOWLS.  197 

and  upstrupperousness,  add  changes  ;  and  there's  an  up 
stairs  and  a  down-stairs  to  every  house,  and  no  home  any 
where.  That's  how  it  is,  and  how  it  must  be,  till  women 
take  down  some  of  their  furbelows  and  live  real,  and 
keep  house,  and  take  old-fashioned  comfort  in  it.  Why, 
the  help  has  to  get  into  their  humpty-dumpties  by  three 
or  four  o'clock,  and  see  their  company.  If  there's  sickness 
or  anything,  that  they  can't,  they're  up  a  tree  and  off. 
I've  known  of  folks  breakin'  up  and  goin'  to  board,  be 
cause  they  were  afraid  of  sickness  ;  they  knew  their  girls 
would  clear  right  out  if  there  was  gruel  to  make  and 
waitin'  up  and  down  to  do.  There  ain't  much  left  to 
depend  on  but  hotels  and  hospitals.  Home  is  too  big  a 
worry.  And  I  do  believe,  my  soul,  its  cloe's  that's  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  It's  been  growin'  wuss  and  wuss  ever  since 
tight  waists  and  holler  biasses  came  in,  and  that's  five 
and  twenty  years  ago." 

Mrs.  Ingraham  grew  more  Yankee  in  her  dialect, 

as  the  Scotch  grow  more  Scotch,  —  with  warming  up  to 
the  subject. 

S underline  laughed. 

^  Well,  I  must  go,"  he  said  ;  "  though  you  do  look  so 
bright  and  cosy  here.  Half  past  seven's  the  last  train, 
and  there's  a  little  job  at  home  I  promised  mother  I'd  do 
to-night.  I've  been  so  busy  lately  that  I  haven't  had 
any  hammer  and  nails  of  my  own.  Ray  !  " 

He'  had  come  round  behind  her  chair,  where  she  had 
seated  herself  at  her  sewing. 

"  It's  pleasant  out  of  town  these  fall  days  ;  and  I  want 

you  to  see  my  house  before  I  give  it  over.     If  I  come  for 

you  to-morrow,  will  you  ride  out  with  me  to  Pomantic  ?  " 

Ray  felt  half  a  dozen  things  at  that  moment  between 

his  question  and  her  reply.     She  felt  her  mother's  eyes 


198  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

just  lifted  at  her,  without  another  movement,  over  the- 
silver  rims  of  her  spectacles  ;  she  felt  Dot's  utter  still^ 
ness  ;  she  felt  her  own  heart  spring  with  a  single  quick 
beat,  and  her  cheeks  grow  warm,  and  a  moisture  at  her 
fingers'  ends  as  they  held  work  and  needle  determinedly, 
and  she  set  two  or  three  stitches  with  instinctive  resolu 
tion  of  not  stopping.  She  felt,  inwardly,  the  certainty 
that  this  would  count  for  much  in  Mrs.  Ingraham's  plain, 
old-fashioned  w^ay  of  judging  things  ;  she  was  afraid  of  a 
misjudgment  for  Frank  S underline,  if  he  did  not,  per 
haps,  mean  anything  particular  by  it ;  she  Avould  have 
refused  him  ten  times  over,  and  let  the  refusal  rest  with 
her,  sooner  than  have  him  blamed ;  for  what  business 
had  she,  after  all,  — 

"  Well,  Ray  ?  " 

She  felt  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  her  chair,  close  to 
her  shoulder  ;  she  felt  that  he  leaned  down  a  little.  She 
heard  something  in  that  "  Well,  Ray,"  that  she  could  not 
turn  aside,  though  in  an  hour  afterward  she  would  be 
taking  herself  to  task  that  she  had  let  it  seem  like  "  any 
thing." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  Yes,  I  think  I 
could  go.  Thank  you,  Frank." 

Frank  Sunder  line  was  not  sure,  as  he  walked  up  Roul- 
stone  Street  afterward,  whether  Ray  cared  much.  She 
made  it  seem  all  matter  of  course,  in  a  minute,  with  that 
calm,  deliberate  answer  of  hers.  And  she  sat  so  still, 
and  let  him  go  out  of  the  room  with  hardly  another  word 
or  look.  She  never  stopped  sewing,  either. 

Well,  —  he  did  not  see  those  ten  stitches  !  He  might 
not  have  been  the  wiser  if  he  had.  They  were  not  car 
penter-work. 

But  Ray  knew  better  than  to  pick  them  out,  while  her 
mother  and  Dot  were  by. 


BONNY  BOWLS.  199 

That  next  day  was  made  for  them. 
Days  are  made  for  separate  people,  though  they  shine 
or  storm  over  so  many.     Or  the  people  are  drifted  into 
the  right  days  ;  what  is  the  difference  ? 

I  must  stop  for  the  thought  here,  that  has  to  do  with 
this  question  of  rain  and  shine,  —  with  need,  and  asking, 
and  giving. 

Prayers  and  special  providences  !  Are  these  thrust 
out  of  the  scheme,  because  there  is  a  scheme,  and  a  stead 
fastness  of  administration  in  God's  laws  ?  "  No  use  to 
pray  for  rain,  or  the  calming  of  the  storm,  or  a  blessing 
on  the  medicine  ?  "  When  it  was  all  set  going,  was  not 
the  prayer  provided  for  ?  It  was  answered  a  million  of 
years  beforehand,  in  the  heart  of  God,  who  put  it  into 
your  heart  and  nature  to  pray.  Long  before  the  want  or 
the  sin,  the  beseeching  for  help  or  for  forgiveness  was 
anticipated ';  provision  was  made  for  the  undoing  or  the 
counteracting  of  the  evil,  —  the  healing  of  the  wrong,  - 
just  as  it  should  be  longed  for  in  the  needing  and  re 
penting  soul.  The  more  law  you  have,  the  more  all 
things  come  under  its  foresight. 

So,  under  the  dear  Law,  —  which  is  Love,  and  cares 
for  the  sparrow,— came  the  fair  October  day,  with  its 
unflecked  firmament,  its  golden,  conquering  warmth,  its 
richness  of  scent  and  color  ;  and  they  two  went  forth  in  it. 
They  went  early,  after  dinner  ;  so  that  the  brightness 
might  last  them  home  again  ;  and  because  the  Newriches, 
in  their  afternoon  drive,  might  be  coming  out  from  the 
city,  perhaps,  a  little  later,  to  look  at  their  waistcoat- 
pocket  plaything. 

Mrs.  Ingraham  turned  away  from  the  basement  win 
dow  with  a  long  breath,  as  they  drove  off. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  that's  settled*"    she  said,  with  the 


200  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

mother-sadness,  in  the  midst  of  the  not  wishing  it  by  any 
means  to  be  otherwise,  inflecting  her  voice. 

"  I  don't  believe  Ray  thinks  so,"  said  Dot. 

In  some  of  the  hundred  little  indirect  ways  that  girls 
find  the  use  of,  Ray  had  managed  to  really  impose  this 
impression  upon  the  sturdy  mind  of  Dot,  without  discus 
sion.  If  Dot  had  had  the  least  bit  of  experience  of  he? 
own,  as  yet,  she  would  not  have  been  imposed  upon.  But 
Mrs.  Ingraham  had  great  reliance  on  Dorothy's  common 
sense,  and  she  left  no  lee-way  for  uninitiation. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  to  say,  child,"  she  asked,  turning 
round  sharply,  "  that  Ray  don't  suppose,  —  or  don't 
want,  —  or  don't  intend  —  ?  She's  a  goose  if  she  don't, 
then  ;  and  they're  both  geese  ;  and  I  shouldn't  have  any 
patience  with  'em  !  And  that's  my  mind  about  it !  " 

It  is  not  such  a  very  beautiful  drive  straight  out  to 
Pomantic  over  the  Roxeter  road.  There  are  more  at 
tractive  ones  in  many  directions.  But  no  drive  out  of 
Boston  is  destitute  of  beauty ;  and  even  the  long  turn 
pike  stretches  —  they  are  turnpike  stretches  still,  though 
the  Pike  is  turned  into  an  Avenue,  and  built  all  along 
with  blocks  of  little  houses,  exactly  alike,  in  those  places 
where  used  to  be  the  flat,  unoccupied  intervals  between 
the  scattered  suburban  residences  —  have  their  breaks  of 
hill  and  orchard  and  garden,  and  their  glimpses  across 
the  marshes,  of  the  sea. 

Ray  enjoyed  every  bit  of  it,  —  even  the  rows  of  new 
tenements  with  their  wooden  door-steps,  and  their  dispro 
portionate  Mansard  roofs  that  make  them  all  look  like 
the  picture  in  "  Mother  Goose,"  of  the  boy  under  a  big 
hat  that  might  be  slid  down  over  him  and  just  cover  him 
up. 

The  rhyme  itself  came  into  Ray's  head,  and  she  said 
it  to  her  companion. 


BONNY  BOWLS. 


Little  lad,  little  lad,  where  were  you  born ' 
Far  off  in  Lancashire,  under  a  thorn, 
Where  they  sup  buttermilk  from  a  ram's  horn ; 
And  a  pumpkin  scooped,  with  a  yellow  rim, 


Is  the  bonny  bowl  they  breakfast  in." 

"  Those  houses  make  me  think  of  that,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
the  picture  over  it  —  do  you  remember  ?  " 

Everybody  remembers  "  Mother  Goose."  You  can't 
quote  or  remind  amiss  from  her. 

"  To  be  sure,"  Frank  answered,  laughing.  "  And  the 
histories  and  the  lives  there  carry  out  the  idea.  They 
all  came  from  Lancashire,  or  somewhere  across  the  big 
sea,  and  they  were  all  born  under  the  thorn,  prettv  much, 
—  of  poverty  and  pinches.  But  they  sup  their  butter- 
» niilk,  and  the  bowl  is  bonny,  if  it  is  only  a  pumpkin  rind. 
Efcn't  that  rhyme  just  the  perfection  of  the  glorifying  of 
common  things  by  imagination  ?  " 

"  It  always  seems  to  me  that  living  might  be  pretty  in 
such  places.  All  just  alike,  and  snug  together.  I  should 
think  Mrs.  Fitzpatrick  and  Mrs.  Mahoney  would  have 
beautiful  little  ambitions  and  rivalries  about  their  tidy 
parlors  and  kitchens,  setting  up  housekeeping  side  by 
side,  as  they  do.  1  should  think  they  might  have  such 
nice  neighborliness,  back  and  forth.  It  looks  full  of  all 
possible  pleasantness  ;  like  the  cottage  quarters  of  the 
army  families,  down  at  Fort  Warren,  that  you  see  so 
white  and  pretty  among  the  trees,  as  you  go  by  in  the 
steamboat." 

"  Only  they  don't  make  it  out,"  said  Frank  Sunder- 
line,  "  after  all.  The  prettiest  part  of  it  is  the  going  by 
in  the  steamboat.  Here,  I  mean.  The  '  Mother  Goose  ' 
idea  is  very  suggestive ;  but  if  you  went  through  that 
block,  from  beginning  to  end,  I  wonder  how  many  '  bonny 
bowls '  you  would  really  find,  that  you'd  be  willing  to 
breakfast  out  of  ?  " 


iSv 


202  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  I  wonder  how  many  bonny  bowls  there'll  be,  one  of 
these  days,  in  the  cook's  closet  of  the  grand  house  we're 
going  to  ?  "  said  Ray. 

"That's  it,"  said  Sunderline.  "It's  pretty  to  build, 
and  it's  pretty  to  look  at ;  but  I  should  like  to  hear  what 
your  mother  would  say  to  the  4  conveniences.'  One  con 
venience  wants  another  to  take  care  of  it,  till  there's  such 
a  compound  interest  of  them  that  it  takes  a  regiment  just 
to  man  the  pumps  and  pipes,  and  open  and  shut  the  cup 
boards.  Living  doesn't  really  need  so  much  machinery. 
But  every  household  seems  to  want  a  little  universe  of 
its  own,  nowadays." 

"  I  suppose  they  make  it  wrong  side  out,"  said  Ray. 
"  I  mean  all  outside." 

Further  on,  along  the  bay  shores,  and  across  the  long 
bridge,  and  reaching  over  crests  of  hills  that  gave  beauti 
ful  pictures  of  land  and  waterscape,  the  way  was  pleas- 
anter  and  pleasanter.  Other  and  different  homesteads 
were  set  along  the  route,  suggesting  endless  imaginations 
of  the  different  character  and  living  of  the  dwellers. 
More  than  once,  either  Ray  or  Frank  was  on  the  point  of 
saying,  as  they  passed  some  modest,  pretty  structure, 
with  its  field  and  garden-piece,  its  piazza,  porch,  or  bal 
cony,  and  its  sunny  windows,  —  "  There  !  that  is  a  nice 
place  and  way  to  live  !  " 

But  a  young  man  and  woman  are  shy  of  sharing  such 
imaginations,  before  the  sharing  is  quite  understood  and 
openly  promised.  So,  many  times  a  silence  fell  upon 
their  casual  talk,  when  the  same  thing  was  in  the  thought 
of  each. 

For  miles  before  they  came  to  it,  the  sightly  Newrich 
edifice  gave  itself,  in  different  aspects,  to  the  view.  Mr. 
Newrich,  himself,  never  saw  anything  else  in  his  drives 


BONNY    BOWLS.  203 

out,  of  sky,  or  hill,  or  water,  after  the  first  glimpse  of  "  my 
house,"  and  the  way  it  "  showed  up  "  in  the  approach. 

Men  were  busy  wheeling  away  rubbish,  as  they  drove 
in  between  the  great  stone  posts  that  marked  the  en 
trance,  where  the  elegant,  light-wrought,  gilded  .iron 
gates  were  not  yet  hung. 

Other  laborers  were  rolling  the  lawn  and  terraces, 
newly  sown  with  English  grass  seed  that  was  to  come 
up  in  the  spring,  and  begin  to  weave  its  green  velvet  car 
pet.  Piles  of  bricks  and  boards  were  gathered  at  the 
back  of  the  house  and  about  the  stables. 

The  plate-glass  windows  glittered  in  the  sun.  The 
tiled-roofs,  with  their  towers  and  slopes,  looked  like  those 
in  pictures  of  palace  buildings.  It  was  a  group,  —  a 
pile  ;  under  these  roofs  a  family  of  five  —  Americans, 
republicans,  with  no  law  of  primogeniture  to  conserve 
the  estate  beyond  a  single  lifetime  —  were  to  live  like  a 
little  royal  household.  And  the  father  had  made  all  his 
money  in  fifteen  years  in  Opal  Street.  This  country  of 
ours,  and  the  ways  of  it,  are  certainly  pretty  nearly  the 
queerest  under  the  sun,  when  one  looks  it  all  through 
and  thinks  it  all  over. 

Frank  Sunderline  pointed  out  the  lovely  work  of  the 
pillars  in  the  porched  veranda ;  every  pillar  a  triple 
column,  of  the  slenderest  grace,  capitaled  with  separate 
devices  of  leaf  and  flower. 

Then  they  went  into  the  wide,  high  hall,  and  through 
the  lower  rooms,  floored  and  ceiled  and  walled  most 
richly  ;  and  up  over  the  stately  staircase,  copied  from 
some  grand  old  English  architecture  ;  along  the  galleries 
into  the  wings,  where  were  the  sleeping  and  dressing- 
rooms  ;  up-stairs,  again,  into  other  sleeping-rooms,  — 
places  for  the  many  servants  that  there  must  be,  —  press- 


204  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

rooms,  closets,  trunk-rooms,  —  space  for  stowing  all  the 
ample  providmgs  for  use  and  change  from  season  to 
season.  Every  frame  and  wainscot  and  panel  a  study 
of  color  and  exact  workmanship  and  perfect  finish. 

It  was  a  "  show  house ;  "  that  was  just  what  it  was. 
"And  I  can't  imagine  the  least  bit  of  home-mess  in  the 
whole  of  it,"  said  Ray,  coming  down  from  the  high 
cupola  whence  they  had  looked  far  out  to  sea,  and  over 
inland,  upon  blue  hills  and  distant  woods. 

They  stopped  half  way,  —  on  the  wide  second  landing 
where  they  had  seen,  as  they  went  up,  that  the  great 
window  space  was  open  ;  the  boards  that  had  temporarily 
covered  it  having  been  removed,  and  the  costly  panes  and 
sashes  that  were  to  fill  it  resting  against  the  wall  at  one 
side. 

"  That  is  the  greatest  piece  of  nonsense  in  the  whole 
house,"  S underline  had  said.  "  A  crack  in  that  would 
be  the  spoiling  of  a  thousand  dollars." 

"  How  very  silly,"  said  Ray,  quietly.  "It  is  only  fit 
for  a  church  or  a  chapel." 

"  It  shuts  out  the  stables,"  said  Sunderline.  "  Take 
care  of  that  open  frame,"  he  had  added,  cautioning  her. 

Now,  coming  down,  he  stopped  right  here,  and  stood 
still  with  his  back  to  the  opening,  looking  across  the  front 
hall  at  some  imperfection  he  fancied  he  detected  in  the 
joining  of  a  carved  cornice.  Ray  stood  on  the  staircase, 
a  little  way  up,  facing  the  gorgeous  window,  and  studying 
its  glow  of  color. 

"  It  won't  do.  The  meeting  of  the  pattern  isn't  per 
fect.  Those  grape-bunches  come  too  near  together,  and 
there's  a  leaf-tip  taken  off  at  the  corner.  What  a 
bungle  !  Come  and  look,  Ray." 

Ray  turned  her  face  toward  him  as  he  spoke,  and  saw 


BONNY  BOWLS.  205 

what  thrilled  her  through  with  sudden  horror.  Saw  him, 
utterly  forgetful  of  where  he  stood,  against  the  dangerous 
vacancy,  his  heel  upon  the  very  edge,  beyond  which 
would  be  death  ! 

A  single  movement  an  inch  further,  and  he  would  be 
off  his  balance.  Behind  him  was  a  fall  of  thirty  feet, 
down  to  those  piles  of  brick  and  timber.  And  he  would 
make  the  movement  unless  he  were  instantly  snatched 
away.  His  head  was  thrown  back,  —  his  shoulders 
leaned  backward,  in  the  attitude  of  one  who  is  endeavor 
ing  to  judge  of  an  effect  a  little  distance  off. 

Her  face  turned  white,  and  her  limbs  quivered  under 
her. 

One  gasping  breath  —  and  then  —  she  turned,  made 
two  steps  upward,  and  flung  herself  suddenly,  as  by  mis 
chance,  prostrate  along  the  broad,  slowly-sloping  stairs. 

Half  a  dozen  thoughts,  in  flashing  succession,  shaped 
themselves  with  and  into  the  action.  She  wondered, 
afterward,  recollecting  them  in  a  distinct  order,  how 
there  had  been  time,  and  how  she  had  thought  so  fast. 

"  I  must  not  scream.  I  must  not  move  toward  him. 
I  must  make  him  come  this  way." 

In  the  two  steps  up  —  "  He  might  not  follow ;  he 
would  not  understand.  He  must :  I  must  make  him 
come  !  "  And  then  she  flung  herself  down,  as  if  she  had 
fallen. 

Once  down,  her  strength  went  from  her  as  she  lay; 
she  turned  really  faint  and  helpless. 

It  was  all  over.     He  was  beside  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Ray  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  Are  you 
hurt  ?  "  he  said,  quickly,  stooping  down  to  lift  her  up. 
She  sat  up,  then,  on  the  stair.  She  could  not  stand. 

A  man's  step  came  rapidly  through  the  lower  hall, 


206  THE   OTHER   GIELS. 

ringing  upon  the  solid  floor,  and  sounding  through  the 
unfurnished  house. 

"  S underline  I  Thank  heaven,  sir,  you're  safe  !  Do 
you  know  how  near  you  were  to  backing  out  of  that  con 
founded  window  ?  I  saw  you  from  the  outside.  In  the 
name  of  goodness,  have  that  place  boarded  up  again !  It 
shouldn't  be  left  for  five  minutes." 

"  Was  that  it  ?  "  asked  Frank,  still  bending  over  Ray, 
while  Mr.  Newrich  said  all  this  as  he  hurried  up  the 
stairs. 

"  I  didn't  fall,  I  tumbled  down  on  purpose  !  It  was 
the  only  thing  I  could  think  of"  said  Ray,  nervously 
smiling  ;  justifying  herself,  instinctively,  from  the  be 
trayal  of  a  feeling  that  makes  girls  faint  away  in  novels. 
"  I  felt  weak  afterward.  Anybody  would." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  Mr.  Newrich,  stopping  at  the 
landing,  and  glancing  out  through  the  aperture.  "  I  shall 
never  think  of  it,  without  shivering.  You  were  as  good 
as  gone  :  a  hair's  breadth  more  would  have  done  it.  God 
bless  my  soul !  If  my  place  had  had  such  a  christening 
as  that !  " 

The  whiteness  came  over  Ray  Ingraham's  face  again. 
She  was  just  rising  to  her  feet,  with  her  hand  upon  the 
rail. 

"  Sit  still,"  said  Frank.  "  Let  me  go  and  bring  you 
some  water." 

"  She'll  feel  better  to  be  by  herself  a  minute  or  two,  I 
dare  say,"  said  Mr.  Newrich,  following  Frank  as  he  went 
down.  He  had  the  tact  to  think  of  this,  but  not  to  go 
without  saying  it. 

"  A  quick-witted  young  woman,"  he  remarked,  as  they 
passed  out  of  her  hearing.  "  And  sensible  enough  to 
keep  her  wits  ahead  of  her  feelings.  If  she  had  come  at 


BONNY  BOWLS.  207 

you,  as  half  the  women  in  the  world  would  have  done, 
you'd  be  a  dead  man  this  minute.  Your  sister,  Sunder- 
line  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  only  a  friend." 

"  Ah  !  onlier  than  a  sister,  may  be  ?     Well !  " 

Sunderline  replied  nothing,  beyond  a  look. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     It's  none  of  my  business." 

"  It's  none  of  my  business,  so  far  as  I  know,"  said 
Frank.  "  If  it  were,  there  would  be  no  pardon  to  beg." 

"  You're  a  fine  fellow  ;  and  she's  a  fine  girl.  I  suppose 
I  may  say  that.  I  tell  you  what ;  if  you  had  come  to 
grief,  at  the  very  end  of  this  job  you've  done  so  well  for 
me,  I  believe  I  should  have  put  the  place  under  the  ham 
mer.  I  couldn't  have  begun  with  such  a  piece  of  Friday 
luck  as  that !  " 

There  were  long  pauses  between  the  talk,  as  Ray  and 
Frank  drove  back  together  into  the  city. 

"  Ray !  "  Frank  said  at  last,  suddenly,  just  as  they 
came  opposite  to  the  row  of  little  brown  big-hatted 
houses,  where  they  had  talked  about  the  bonny  bowls,  — 
"  My  life  is  either  worth  more  or  less  to  me,  after  this. 
You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world  I  could  like  to  owe 
it  to.  Will  you  take  what  I  owe?  Will  you  be  the 
onliest  woman  in  the  world  to  me  ?  " 

Oddly  enough,  that  word  of  Mr.  Newrich's,  that  had 
half  affronted  him,  came  up  to  his  lips  involuntarily  and 
unexpectedly,  now.  Words  are  apt  to  come  up  so  —  in 
a  sort  of  spite  of  us  —  that  have  made  an  impression, 
even  when  it  has  been  that  of  simple  misuse. 

Ray  did  not  answer.  She  felt  it  quite  impossible  to 
speak. 

Frank  waited  —  three  minutes  perhaps.     Then  he  said, 

"  Tell  me,  Ray.     If  it  is  to  be  no,  let  me  know  it." 


208  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"If  it  had  been  no,  I  could  have  said  it  sooner,"  Ray 
answered,  softly. 

"  May  I  come  back?"  he  asked,  when  he  helped  her 
down  at  the  door  in  Pilgrim  Street,  and  held  her  hand 
fast  for  a  minute. 

"  O  yes  ;  come  back  and  see  mother,"  Ray  replied,  her 
face  all  beautiful  with  smile  and  color. 

Mother  knew  all  the  story,  that  minute,  as  well  as 
when  it  was  told  her  afterward.  She  saw  her  child's  face, 
and  that  holding  of  the  hand,  from  her  upper  window, 
where  a  half  blind  had  fallen  to.  Mothers  do  not  miss 
the  home-comings  from  such  drives  as  that. 

"  There's  one  thing,  Frank,"  —  said  Ray.  She  was 
standing  with  him,  three  hours  afterward,  at  the  low  step 
of  the  entrance,  he  above  her  on  the  sidewalk,  looking 
down  upon  her  upturned  face.  The  happy  tea  and  family 
evening  were  over ;  that  first  family  evening,  when  one 
comes  acknowledged  in,  who  has  been  almost  one  of  the 
family  before  ;  and  they  were  saying  the  first  beautiful 
good-by,  which  has  the  beginning  of  all  joining  and  be 
longing  in  it.  "  There  is  one  thing,  Frank.  I'm  under 
contract  for  the  present ;  for  quite  a  while.  I'm  going 
into  the  bread  business,  after  all.  I've  promised  Miss 
Grapp  to  take  her  bakery,  and  manage  it  for  her,  for  a 
year  or  so." 

"  Who  —  is  —  Miss  Grapp  ?  "  exclaimed  Frank,  paus 
ing  between  the  words  in  his  astonishment. 

Ray  laughed.  "  Haven't  I  told  you  ?  I  thought 
everybody  knew.  It's  too  long  a  story  for  the  door-step. 
When  you  come  again  "  — 

"  That'll  be  to-morrow." 


BONNY    BOWLS. 


209 


"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

«  You'll  have  to  manage  the  bakery  and  me  too,  some 
how,  before  —  a  '  year  or  so  ' !  How  long  do  you  sup 
pose  I  expect  to  wait  ?  " 

"  Dear  me  !  how  long  have  you  waited  ?  "  returned  Ray, 

demurely. 

She  only  meant  the  three  hours  since  they  had  been 
engaged  ;  but  it  is  a  funny  fact  about  the  nature  and  pre 
rogative  of  a  man,  that  he  may  take  years  in  which  to 
come  to  the  point  of  asking— years  in  which  perhaps  a 
woman's  life  is  waiting,  with  a  wear  and  an  uncertainty 
in  it;  but  the  point  of  having  must  be  moved  up  then,  to 
suit  his  sudden  impatience  of  full  purpose. 

A  woman  shrinks  from  this  hurry  ;  she  wants  a  little 
of  the  blessed  time  of  sure  anticipation,  after  she  knows 
that  they  belong  to  one  another  ;  a  time  to  dream  and 
plan,  beautiful  things  together  in  ;  to  let  herself  think, 
safely  and  rightly,  all  the  thoughts  she  has  had  to  keep 
down  until  now.  It  is  the  difference  of  attitude  in  the 
asking  and  answering  relations  ;  a  man's  thou  jhts  have 
been  free  enough  all  along  ;  he  has  dreamt  his  dream  out, 
and  stands  claiming  the  fulfillment. 

Dot  had  her  hair  all  down  that  night,  and  her  night 
gown  on,  and  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  with  her  feet  curled 
up,  while  Ray  stood  in  skirts  and  dressing-sack,  before 
the  glass,  her  braids  half  unfastened,  stock-still,  looking 
in  at  herself,  or  through  her  own  image,  with  a  most 
intent  oblivion  of  what  she  pretended  to  be  there  for. 

"  Well,   Ray  !     Have   you   forgotten   the  way  to  the 
other  side  of  your  head,  or  are  you  enchanted  for  a  hun 
dred  years  ?  I  shall  want  the  glass  to-morrow  morning." 
Ray  roused  up  from  her  abstraction. 
"  I  was  thinking,"  she  said. 


210  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Yes'm.  I  suppose  you'll  be  always  thinking  now. 
You  had  just  outgrown  that  trick,  a  little.  It  was  the 
affliction  of  my  childhood ;  and  now  it's  got  to  begin  again. 
*  Don't  talk,  Dot ;  I'm  thinking.'  Good-by." 

There  was  half  a  whimper  in  Dorothy's  last  word. 

"  Dot !   You  silly  little  thing  !  " 

And  Rachel  came  over  to  the  bedside,  and  put  her  arms 
round  Dorothy,  all  crumpled  as  she  was  into  a  little 
round  white  ball. 

"  I  was  thinking  about  Marion  Kent." 


RECOMPENSE.  211 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

RECOMPENSE. 

THAT  night,  Marion  Kent  was  fifty  miles  off,  in  the 
great,  mixed-up,  manufacturing  town  of  Loweburg. 

She  had  three  platform  dresses  now,  —  the  earnings  of 
some  half-dozen  "  evenings."  The  sea-green  silk  would 
not  do  forever,  in  place  after  place  ;  they  would  call  her 
the  mermaid.  She  must  have  a  quiet,  elegant  black  one, 
and  one  the  color  of  her  hair,  like  that  she  had  seen  the 
pretty  actress,  Alice  Craike,  so  bewitching  in.  She  could 
deepen  it  with  chestnut  trimmings,  all  toning  up  together 
to  one  rich,  bright  harmony.  Her  hair  was  "blond 
cendre,"  —  not  the  red-golden  of  Alice  Craike's  ;  but  the 
same  subtle  rule  of  art  was  available  ;  "  cafe-au-lait " 
was  her  shade  ;  and  the  darker  velvet  just  deepened  and 
emphasized  the  effect. 

She  was  putting  this  dress  on  to-night,  with  some 
brown  and  golden  leaves  in  the  high,  massed  braids  of 
her  hair.  She  certainly  knew  how  to  make  a  picture  of 
herself ;  she  was  just  made  to  make  a  picture  of. 

The  hotel  waitress  who  had  brought  up  her  tea  on  a 
tray,  had  gone  down  with  a  report  that  Miss  Kent  was 
"  stunning  ;  "  and  two  or  three  housemaids  and  a  number 
of  little  boys  were  vibrating  and  loitering  about  the  hall 
and  doorway  below,  watching  for  her  to  come  down  to 
her  carriage.  It  was  just  as  good,  so  far  as  these  things 
went,  as  if  she  had  been  Mrs.  Kemble,  or  Christine 
Nilsson,  or  anybody. 

And  Marion,  poor  child,  had  really  got  no  farther  than 


212  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  these  things,"  yet.  She  reached,  for  herself,  to  just 
what  she  had  been  able  to  appreciate  in  others.  She  had 
taken  in  the  housemaid  and  snmll-boy  view  of  famous 
ness,  and  she  was  having  her  shallow  little  day  of  living 
it.  She  had  not  found  out,  yet,  how  short  a  time  that 
would  last.  "  Verily,"  it  was  said  for  us  all  long  ago, 
"  ye  shall  have  each  your  reward,"  such  as  ye  look  and 
labor  for. 

One  great  boy  was  waiting  for  her,  ex  officio,  and  with 
out  disguise,  —  the  President  of  the  Lyceum  Club,  before 
which  she  was  to  read  to-night. 

He  sat  serenely  in  the  reception-room,  ready  to  hand 
her  to  her  carriage,  and  accompany  her  to  the  hall. 

The  little  boys  observed  him  with  exasperation.  The 
housemaids  dropped  their  lower  jaws  with  wonder,  when 
she  swept  down  the  staircase  ;  her  cafS-au-lait  silk  rolling 
and  glittering  behind  her,  as  if  the  breakfast  for  all 
Loweburg  were  pouring  down  the  Phoenix  Hotel  stairs. 

The  President  of  the  People's  Lyceum  Club  heard  the 
rustle  of  elegance,  and  met  her  at  the  stair-foot  with  bow 
ing  head  and  bended  arm. 

That  was  a  beautiful,  triumphant  moment,  in  which 
she  crossed  the  space  between  the  staircase  and  the  door, 
and  went  down  over  the  sidewalk  to  the  hack.  What 
would  you  have  ?  There  could  not  have  been  more  of  it, 
in  rier  mind,  though  all  Loweburg  were  standing  by. 
She  was  Miss  Kent,  going  out  to  give  her  Heading. 
What  more  could  Fanny  Kemble  do  ? 

Around  the  hall  doors,  when  they  arrived,  other  great 
boys  were  gathered.  She  was  passed  in  quickly,  to  the 
left,  through  some  passages  and  committee  rooms,  to  the 
other  end  of  the  building,  whence  she  would  enter,  in  full 
glory,  upon  the  platform. 


THE  RUSTLE  OF  ELEGANCE. 


RECOMPENSE, 


213 


She  came  in  gracefully ;  a  little  breezy  she  could  not 
help  being  ;  it  was  the  one  movement  of  the  universe  to 
her  at  that  moment,  her  ten  steps  across  the  platform,  - 
her  little  half  bow,  half  droop,  before  the  applauding 
audience,  —  the  taking  up  of  the  bouquet  laid  upon  her 
table. — her  smile,  with  a  scarcely  visible  inclination 
again,  —  and  the  sitting  down  among  those  waves  of 
amber  that  rose  up  shining  in  the  gas-light,  about  her,  as 
she  subsided  among  her  silken  draperies. 

She  was  imitative ;  she  had  learned  the  little  outsider 
of  her  art  well ;  but  you  see  the  art  was  not  high. 

It  was  the  same  with  her  reading.  She  had  had  drill 
enough  to  make  her  elocution  passable;  her  voice  was 
clear  and  sweet ;  she  had  a  natural  knack,  as  we  have 
seen,  for  speaking  to  the  galleries.  When  there  was  a 
sensational,  dramatic  point  to  make,  she  could  make  it 
after  her  external  fashion,  strongly.  The  deep  magnetism 
—  the  electric  thrill  of  soul-reality  —  these  she  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with. 

Yet  she  read  some  things  that  thrilled  of  themselves ; 
the  very  words  of  which,  uttered  almost  anyhow,  were  fit 
to  bring  men  to  their  feet  and  women  to  tears,  with  sub 
limity  and  pathos.  Somebody  had  helped  her  chpose 
effectively,  and  things  very  cunningly  adaptive  to  herself. 

The  last  selection  for  the  first  part  of  her  reading 
to-night  was  Mrs.  Browning's  "  Court  Lady." 

"  Wear  your  fawn-colored  silk  when  you  read  this," 
Virginia  Levering  had  counseled. 

Her  self-consciousness  made  the  first  lines  telling. 

"  Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  —  her  eyes  with  purple  were  dark; 
Her  cheeks  pale  opal  burned  with  a  red  and  restless  spark." 

Her  head,  bright  with  its  golden-dusty  waves  and 
braids,  leaned  forward  under  the  light  as  she  uttered  the 


214  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

words  ;  her  great,  gray -blue  eyes,  deepening  with  excite 
ment  to  black,  lifted  themselves  and  looked  the  crowd  in 
the  face  ;  the  color  mounted  like  a  crimson  spark  ;  she 
glowed  all  over.  Yes,  over  ;  not  up,  nor  through  ;  but 
some  things  catch  from  the  outside.  A  flush  and  rustle 
ran  over  the  faces,  and  the  benches  ;  she  felt  that  every 
eye  was  upon  her,  lit  up  with  an  admiring  eagerness,  that 
answered  to  her  eagerness  to  be  admired. 

O,  this  was  living  !  There  was  a  pulse  and  a  rush  in. 
this  !  Marion  Kent  was  living,  with  all  her  nature  that 
had  yet  waked  up,  at  that  bewildering  and  superficial 
moment. 

But  she  has  got  to  live  deeper.  The  Lord,  who  gave 
her  life,  will  not  let  her  off  so.  It  will  come.  It  is 
coming. 

We  know  not  the  day  nor  the  hour  ;  though  we  go  on 
as  if  we  knew  all  things  and  were  sure. 

At  this  very  instant,  there  is  close  upon  you,  Marion 
Kent,  one  of  those  lightning  shafts  that  run  continually 
quivering  to  and  fro  about  the  earth,  with  their  net-work 
of  fire,  in  this  storm  of  life  under  which  we  of  to-day 
are  born.  All  the  air  is  tremulous  with  quick,  converg 
ing  nerves ;  concentrating  events,  bringing  each  soul,  as 
it  were,  into  a  possible  focus  continually,  under  the  forces 
that  are  forging  to  bear  down  upon  it.  There  are  no 
delays,  —  no  respites  of  ignorance.  Right  into  the  midst 
of  our  most  careless  or  most  selfish  doing,  comes  the  sum 
mons  that  arrests  us 'in  the  Name  of  the  King. 

"  She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  spring. 
That  was  a  Pieclmontese !     And  this  is  the  Court  of  the  King!  " 

She  was  upon  her  feet,  as  if  the  impulse  of  the  words 
had  lifted  her ;  she  had  learned  by  rote  and  practice 
when  and  how  to  do  it ;  she  had  been  poised  for  the 
action  through  the  reading  of  all  those  last  stanzas. 


RECOMPENSE.  215 

She  did  it  well.  One  hand  rested  by  the  finger-tips 
upon  the  open  volume  before  her  ;  her  glistening  robes 
fell  back  as  she  gained  her  full  height,  —  she  swayed  for 
ward  toward  the  assembly  that  leaned  itself  toward  her  ; 
the  lef£  hand  threw  itself  back  with  a  noble  gesture  of 
generous  declaring  ;  the  fingers  curving  from  the  open 
palm,  as  it  might  have  been  toward  the  pallet  of  the 
dead  soldier  at  her  side.  She  was  utterly  motionless  for 
an  instant ;  then,  as  the  applause  broke  down  the  silence, 
she  turned,  and  grandly  passed  out  along  the  stage,  and 
disappeared. 

Within  the  door  of  the  anteroom  stood  a  messenger 
from  the  hotel.  He  had  a  telegraph  envelope  in  his 
hand  ;  he  put  it  into  hers. 

She  tore  it  open,  —  not  thinking,  scarcely  noticing ;  the 
excitement  of  the  instant  just  past  moved  her  nerves, — 
no  apprehension  of  what  this  might  be. 

Then  the  lightning  reached  her :  struck  her  through 
and  through. 

u  Your  ma's  dying  :  come  back  :  no  money." 

Those  last  words  were  a  mistake  ;  the  whole  dispatch, 
in  its  absurd  homeliness  and  its  pitiless  directness,  was 
the  work  of  old  Mrs.  Knoxwell,  the  blacksmith's  wife, 
used  to  hammers  and  nails,  and  believing  in  good,  force 
ful,  honest  ways  of  doing  things  ;  feeling  also  a  righteous 
and  neighborly  indignation  against  this  child,  negligent 
of  her  worn  and  lonely  mother ;  "  skitin'  about  the  coun 
try,  makin'  believe  big  and  famous.  She  would  let  her 
know  the  truth,  right  out  plain  ;  it  would  be  good  for 
her." 

What  she  had  meant  to  write  at  the  end  was  "  Pneu 
monia  ; "  but  spelling  it  "  Nunioney,"  it  had  got  trans 
mitted  as  we  have  seen. 


216  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

It  struck  Marion  through  and  through  ;  but  she  did 
not  feel  it  at  first.  It  met  the  tide  of  her  triumph  and 
elation  full  in  her  throbbing  veins ;  and  the  two  keen 
currents  turned  to  a  mere  stillness  for  a  moment. 

Then  she  dropped  down  where  she  was,  all  into  the 
golden  mass  and  shine  of  her  bright  raiment,  with  her 
hands  before  her  eyes,  the  paper  crumpled  in  the  clinch 
of  one  of  them. 

The  President  of  the  People's  Lyceum  Club  made  a 
little  speech,  and  dismissed  the  audience.  "  Miss  Kent 
had  received  by  telegraph  most  painful  intelligence  from 
her  family ;  was  utterly  unable  to  appear  again." 

The  audience  behaved  as  an  American  People's  Club 
knows  so  well  how  to  behave  ;  dispersed  quietly,  without 
a  grumble,  or  a  recollection  of  the  half  value  of  the 
tickets  lost.  Miss  Kent's  carriage  drove  rapidly  from  a 
side  door.  In  two  hours,  she  was  on  board  the  night 
train  down  from  Vermont. 

That  was  on  Friday  night. 

On  Sunday  morning  Frank  Sunderline  came  in  on  the 
service  train,  and  went  up  to  Pilgrim  Street. 

"  Mrs.  Kent  is  dead,"  he  told  Ray.  "  Marion  is  in 
awful  trouble.  Can't  you  come  out  to  her  ?  " 

Ray  was  just  leaving  the  house  to  go  to  church.  In 
stead,  she  went  with  Frank  to  the  horse-railroad  station, 
catching  the  eleven  o'clock  car.  She  had  been  expecting 
him  in  the  afternoon,  to  take  her  to  drink  tea  with  his 
mother,  who  was  not  able  to  come  in  to  see  her. 

In  an  hour,  she  went  in  at  Mrs.  Kent's  white  gate,  — 
Frank  leaving  her  there.  They  both  felt,  without  saying, 
th?ot  it  would  not  be  kind  to  appear  together.  Marion 
had  that  news,  though,  as  she  had  had  the  other ;  from 
her  Job's  comforter,  Mrs.  Knoxwell,  who  was  persist 
ently  "  sitting  with  her." 


RECOMPENSE.  217 

"  There's  Frank  Sunderline  and  Ray  Ingraham  at  the 
gate.  She's  coming  in.  They're  engaged.  It's  just 
out." 

"  "What  do  I  care  ?  "  cried  Marion,  fiercely,  turning 
upon  her,  and  astounding  Mrs.  Knoxwell  by  the  sudden 
burst  of  angry  words ;  for  she  had  not  spoken  for  more 
than  an  hour,  in  which  the  blacksmith's  wife  had  admin 
istered  occasional  appropriate  sentences  of  stinging  con 
dolence  and  well-meant  retrospection.  "  I  wish  you 
would  go  home  I  " 

Every  monosyllable  was  uttered  with  a  desperate, 
wrathful  deliberateness  and  flinging  away  of  all  pretense 
and  politeness. 

"Well — 'f  I  never!"  gasped  Mrs.  Knoxwell,  with  a 
sound  in  her  voice  as  if  she  had  received  a  blow  in  the 
pit  of  her  stomach. 

"  Jest  as  you  please,  Marion — 'f  I  ain't  no  more  use  !  " 
And  the  aggrieved  matron,  who  had,  as  she  said  after 
ward  in  recounting  it,  "  done  everything,"  left  the  scene 
of  her  labors  and  her  animadversions,  with  a  face  per 
fectly  emptied  of  all  expression  by  her  inability  to  "  real 
ize  what  she  did  feel." 

Ray  Ingraham  came  in,  went  straight  up  to  Marion, 
and  took  her  into  her  arms  without  a  word.  And  Marion 
put  her  head  down  on  Ray's  shoulder,  and  cried  her  very 
heart  out. 

"  You  needn't  try  to  comfort  me.  I  can't  be  comforted 
like  anybody  else.  It's  the  day  of  judgment  come  down 
into  my  life.  I've  sold  my  birthright :  I've  nobody  be 
longing  to  me  any  more.  I  wanted  the  world  —  to  be 
free  in  it ;  and  I'm  turned  out  into  it  now ;  and  home's 
gone  —  and  mother  ! 

"  I  never   thought  of  her  dying.     I  expected    one  of 


218  THE   OTHER   GIELS. 

these  days  to  do  for  her,  and  not  let  her  work  any  more. 
I  meant  to,  Ray  —  I  did,  truly  !  But  she's  dead  —  and 
I  let  her  die  !  " 

With  sentences  like  these,  Marion  broke  out  now  and 
again,  putting  aside  all  Ray's  consolations ;  going  back 
continually  to  her  self-upbraidings,  after  every  pause  in 
which  Ray  had  let  her  rest  or  cry  quietly ;  after  every 
word  with  which  she  tried  to  prevail  against  her  despair 
and  soothe  her  with  some  hope  or  promise. 

44  They  are  none  of  them  for  me !  "  she  cried.  "  It 
would  have  been  better  if  I  had  never  been  born.  Ray  !  " 
she  said  suddenly,  in  a  strained,  hollow  voice,  grasping 
Rachel's  arm  and  looking  with  wild,  swollen  eyes-  into 
hers,  —  "I  was  just  as  bad  by  little  Sue.  I  was  only 
fourteen  then,  but  it  was  the  same  evil,  unsuitable  van 
ity  and  selfishness.  I  was  busy,  while  she  was  sick,  mak 
ing  a  white  muslin  burnouse  to  wear  to  a  fair.  I  had 
teased  mother  for  it.  It  was  a  silly  thing  for  a  girl  like 
me  to  wear ;  it  had  a  blue  ribbon  run  in  the  hem  of 
the  hood,  and  a  bow  and  long  blue  ends  behind.  Poor 
little  Sue  was  just  down  with  the  fever.  Mother  had  to 
go  out,  and  left  me  to  tend  ,  her.  She  wanted  some 
water  —  Oh  !  " 

Marion  broke  down,  and  sobbed,  with  her  head  bowed 
to  her  knees  as  she  sat. 

Ray  sat  perfectly  still.  She  longed  to  beg  her  not  to 
think  about  it,  not  to  say  any  more  ;  but  she  knew  she 
would  feel  better  if  she  did. 

44 1  told  her  I'd  go  presently  ;  and  she  waited  —  the 
patient  little  thing  !  And  I  was  making  my  blue  bow, 
and  fixing  it  on,  and  fussing  with  the  running,  and  I  for 
got  !  And  she  couldn't  bear  to  bother  me,  and  didn't 
say  a  word,  but  waited  till  she  dropped  to  sleep  without 


RECOMPENSE.  219 

it ;  and  her  lips  were  so  red  and  dry.  It  was  a  whole 
hour  that  I  let  her  lie  so.  She  never  knew  anything  after 
that. 

"  She  waked  up  all  in  a  rave  of  light-headed  ness  ! 

"  I  thought  I  should  never  get  over  it,  Ray.  And  I 
never  did,  way  down  in  my  heart ;  but  I  got  back  into 
the  same  wretched  nonsense,  and  now  —  here's  mother  ! 

"  It's  no  use  to  tell  me.  I've  done  it.  I've  lost  my 
right.  It'll  never  be  given  back  to  me." 

"  Marion  —  I  wish  you  could  have  Mr.  Vireo  to  talk 
to  you  ;  or  Luclarion  Grapp.  Won't  you  come  home  with 
me,  and  let  them  come  to  see  you  ?  They  know  about 
these  things,  dear." 

"Would  you  take  me  home?  "  asked  Marion,  slowly, 
looking  her  in  the  face. 

"  Yes,  indeed.     Will  you  come  ?  " 

"  O,  do  take  me  and  hide  me  away,  and  let  me  cry  ! " 

She  dropped  herself,  as  it  were  passively,  into  Rachel 
Ingraham's  hands.  She  could  not  stay  among  the  neigh 
bors,  she  said.  She  could  not  stay  in  that  house  alone, 
one  day. 

Ray  stayed  with  her,  until  after  the  funeral. 

Marion  would  not  go  to  the  church.  She  had  let  them 
decide  everything  just  as  they  pleased,  thinking  only  that 
she  could  not  think  about  any  of  it.  Mrs.  Kent  had  been 
a  faithful,  humble  church-member  for  forty  years,  and 
the  minister  and  her  fellow-members  wanted  her  to  be 
brought  there.  There  was  no  room  in  the  little  half- 
house,  where  she  had  lived,  for  neighbors  and  friends  to 
gather,  and  for  the  services  properly  to  take  place. 

So  it  was  decided. 

But  when  the  time  came,  and  it  was  too  late  to  change, 
Marion  said,  —  "  She  belonged  to  them,  and  they  have 


220  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

done  by  her.  They  can  all  go,  but  I  can't.  To  sit  up  in 
the  front  pew  as  a  mourner,  and  be  looked  at,  and  prayed 
for,  as  if  I  had  been  a  real  child,  and  had  only  lost  my 
mother  !  You  know  I  can't,  Ray.  I  will  stay  here,  and 
bear  my  punishment.  May  be  if  I  bear  it  all  now  —  do 
you  believe  it  might  make  any  difference?  " 

Ray  stayed  with  her  through  the  whole. 

While  all  was  still  in  the  church,  not  ten  rods  off,  a 
carriage  came  for  them  to  the  little  white  gate.  With 
the  silken  blinds  down,  and  the  windows  open  behind 
them,  it  was  driven  to  the  w  cemetery,  and  in  beneath  the 
sheltering  trees,  to  a  stopping  place  just  upon  a  little  side 
turn,  near  the  newly  opened  grave.  No  one,  of  those 
who  alighted  from  the  vehicles  of  the  short  procession, 
knew  exactly  when  or  how  it  had  come. 

The  words  of  the  prayer  beside  the  grave,  —  most 
tenderly  framed  by  the  good  old  minister,  for  the  ear  he 
knew  they  would  reach  —  came  in  soft  and  clear  upon 
the  pleasant  air. 

"  And  we  know,  Lord,  as  we  lay  these  friends  away, 
one  after  another,  that  we  give  them  into  Thy  hands,  — 
into  Thy  heart ;  that  we  give  into  Thy  heart,  also,  all 
our  love  and  our  sorrow,  and  our  penitence  for  whatever 
more  we  might  have  been  or  done  toward  them ;  that 
through  Thee,  our  thought  of  them  can  reach  them  for 
ever.  We  pray  Thee  to  forgive  us,  as  we  know  we  do 
forgive  each  other ;  to  keep  alive  and  true  in  us  the  love 
by  which  we  hold  each  other  ;  and  finally  to  bring  us  face 
to  face  in  Thy  glory,  which  is  Thy  loving  presence  among 
us  all.  We  ask  Thee  to  do  this,  by  the  pity  and  grace 
that  are  in  Thy  Christ,  our  Saviour." 

After  that,  they  were  driven  straight  in,  over  the  long 
Avenue,  to  the  city,  and  to  the  quiet  house  in  Pilgrim 
Street. 


RECOMPENSE.  221 

Ray  herself,  only,  led  Marion  to  the  little  room  up-stairs 
which  had  been  made  ready  for  her ;  Ray  brought  her 
up  some  tea,  and  made  her  drink  it ;  she  saw  her  in  bed 
for  the  night,  and  sat  by  her  till  she  fell  asleep. 


222  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

ERRANDS  OF  HOPE. 

TT  is  a  very  small  world,  after  all." 
Mr.  Dickens,  who  touched  the  springs  of  the  whole 
world's  life,  and  moved  all  its  hearts  with  tears  and  laugh 
ter,  said  so  ;  and  we  find  it  out,  each  in  our  own  story,  or 
in  any  story  that  we  know  of  or  try  to  tell.  How  things 
come  round  and  join  each  other  again,  —  how  this  that 
we  do,  brings  us  face  to  face  with  that  which  we  have 
done,  and  with  its  work  and  consequence  ;  how  people 
find  each  other  after  years  and  years,  and  find  that  they 
have  not  been  very  far  apart  after  all ;  how  the  old  com 
binations  return,  and  almost  repeat  themselves,  when  we 
had  thought  that  they  were  done  with. 

"  As  the  doves  fly  to  their  windows,"  where  the  crumbs 
are  waiting  for  them,  we  find  ourselves  borne  by  we 
know  not  what  instinct  of  events,  —  yet  we  do  know  ;  for 
it  is  just  the  purpose  of  God,  as  all  instinct  is,  —  toward 
these  conjunctions  and  recurrences.  We  can  see  at  the 
end  of  weeks,  or  months,  or  years,  how  in  some  Hand  the 
lines  must  have  all  been  gathered,  and  made  to  lead  and 
draw  to  the  coincidence.  We  call  it  fate,  sometimes ; 
stopping  short,  either  blindly  inapprehensive  of  the  larger 
and  surer  blessedness,  or  too  shyly  reverent  of  what  we 
believe  to  say  it  easily  out.  Yet  when  we  read  it  in  a 
written  story,  we  call  it  the  contrivance  of  the  writer,  — 
the  trick  of  the  trade.  Dearly  beloved,  the  writer  only 
catches,  in  such  poor  fashion  as  he  may,  the  trick  of  the 
Finger,  whose  scripture  is  upon  the  stars. 


ERRANDS    OF  HOPE.  223 

*  Marion  Kent  is  received  into  the  Ingraliam  home. 
Hilary  Vireo  and  Luclarion  Grapp  preach  the  gospel  to 
her. 

"  Christ  died." 

The  minister  uttered  his  evangel  of  mercy  in  those  two 
eternal  words. 

«  Yes,  —  Christ,"  murmured  the  girl,  who  had  never 
questioned  about  such  things  before,  and  to  whose  lips 
the  holy  name  had  been  strange,  unsuitable,  impossible ; 
but  whose  soul,  smitten  with  its  sin  and  need,  broke 
through  the  wretched  outward  liinderance  now,  and  had 
to  cry  up  after  the  only  Hope. 

"  But  He  could  not  forgive  my  letting  them  die.  I  have 
been  reading  the  New  Testament,  Mr.  Vireo,  '  Whoso 
ever  shall  offend  one  of  these  little  ones,  it  were  better  for 
him  that  a  millstone  "  — 

She  could  not  finish  the  quotation. 

"  Yes,  —  '  offend  ;  '  turn  aside  out  of  the  right  —  away 
from  Him  ;  mislead.  Hurt  their  souls,  Marion." 

Marion  gave  a  grasping  look  into  his  face.  Her  eyes 
seized  the  comfort,  —  snatched  it  with  a  starving  madness 
out  of  his. 

"  Do  you  think  it  means  that  ?  "  she  said." 

"  I  do.  I  know  the  word  '  offend '  means  simply  to 
4  turn  away.'  We  may  sin  against  each  other's  outward 
good,  grievously  ;  we  may  lay  up  lives  full  of  regrets  to 
bear ;  we  may  hurt,  we  may  kill ;  and  then  we  must 
repent  according  to  our  sin ;  but  we  may  repent,  and  they 
and  He  will  pity.  It  is  the  soul-killers  —  the  corrupters 
—  Christ  so  terribly  condemns." 

"  But  listen  to  me,  Marion,"  he  began  again.  "  God 
let  his  Christ  die  —  suffer  —  for  the  whole  world.  Christ 
lets  them  whom  he  counts  worthy,  die  —  suffer  —  for 


224  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

their  world.  The  Lamb  is  forever  slain  ;  the  sacrifice  of 
the  holy  is  forever  making.  It  is  so  that  they  come  to 
walk  in  white  with  Him  ;  because  they  have  washed  their 
robes  in  his  blood  —  have  partaken  of  his  sacrifice.  Do 
you  not  think  they  are  glad  now,  with  his  joy,  to  have 
given  themselves  for  you  ;  if  it  brings  you  back  ?  '  If  I 
be  lifted  up,  I  will  draw  all  men  unto  me.'  He  who 
knew  how  to  lay  hold  of  the  one  great  heart  of  humanity 
by  a  divine  act,  knows  how  to  give  his  own  work  to  those 
who  can  draw  the  single  cords,  and  save  with  love  the 
single  souls.  They  must  suffer,  that  they  may  also  reign 
with  Him.  It  is  his  gift  to  them  and  to  you.  Will  you 
take  your  part  of  it,  and  make  theirs  perfect  ?  '  Let  not 
your  heart  be  troubled  ;  ye  believe  in  God,  believe  also  in 
me.  Ye  believe  in  me,  believe  also  in  these.' ' 

"  But  I  want  to  come  where  they  are.  I  want  to  love 
and  do  for  them  ;  do  something  for  them  in  heaven, 
Mr.  Vireo,  that  I  did  not  do  here !  Can  I  ever  have  my 
chances  given  back  again  ?  " 

"  You  have  them  now.  Go  and  do  something  for  '  the 
least  of  these.'  That  is  how  we  work  for  our  Christs 
who  have  been  lifted  up.  Do  their  errands  ;  enter  into 
the  sacrifice  with  them  ;  be  a  link  yourself  in  the  divine 
chain,  and  feel  the  joy  and  the  life  of  it.  The  moment 
you  give  yourself,  you  shall  feel  that.  You  shall  know 
that  you  are  joined  to  them.  You  need  not  wait  to  go 
to  heaven.  You  can  be  in  heaven." 

He  left  her  with  that  to  think  of  ;  left  her  with  a  new 
peace  in  her  eyes.  She  looked  round  that  hour  for  some 
thing  to  do. 

She  went  up  into  old  Mrs.  Rhynde's  room.  She  knew 
Ray  and  Dot  were  busy.  She  found  the  old  lady's  knit 
ting  work  all  in  a  snarl ;  stitches  dropped  and  twisted. 


ERRANDS    OF   HOPE.  225 

Some  coals  had  rolled  out  upon  the  hearth,  and  the 
sun  had  got  round  so  as  to  strike  across  her  where  she 
sat. 

The  grandmother  was  waiting  patiently,  closing  her 
eyes,  and  resting  them,  letting  the  warm  sun  lie  upon  her 
folded  hands  like  a  friend's  touch.  One  of  the  girls  would 
be  up  soon. 

Marion  came  in  softly,  brushed  up  the  hearth,  laid  the 
sticks  and  embers  together,  made  the  fire-place  bright. 
She  changed  the  blinds  ;  lowered  one,  raised  another  ; 
kept  the  sunshine  in  the  room,  but  shielded  away  the 
dazzle  that  shot  between  face  and  fingers.  She  left  the 
shade  with  careful  note,  just  where  it  let  the  warm  beam 
in  upon  those  quiet  hands.  Some  instinct  told  her  not  to 
come  between  them  and  that  heavenly  enfolding. 

She  took  the  knitting-work  and  straightened  it ;  rav 
eled  down,  and  picked  up,  and  with  nimble  stitches  re 
stored  the  lost  rows. 

Mrs.  Rhynde  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled. 

Then  she  offered  to  read.  She  had  not  read  a  word 
aloud  from  a  printed  page  since  that  night  in  Loweburg. 

The  old  lady  wanted  a  hymn.  Marion  read  "  He  lead- 
eth  me."  The  book  opened  of  itself  to  that  place.  She 
read  it  as  one  whose  soul  went  searching  into  the  words 
to  find  what  was  in  them,  and  bring  it  forth.  Of  Marion 
Kent,  sitting  in  the  chair  with  the  book  in  her  hand,  she 
thought —  she  remembered  —  nothing.  Her  spirit  went 
from  out  of  her,  into  spiritual  places.  So  she  followed 
the  words  with  her  voice,  as  one  really  reading ;  inter 
preting  as  she  went.  All  her  elocution  had  taught  her 
nothing  like  this  before.  It  had  not  touched  the  secret 
of  the  instant  receiving  and  giving  again  ;  it  had  only 
been  the  trick  of  saying  out,  which  is  no  giving  at  all. 

15 


226  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  said  the  soft  toothless  voice. 
"  That's  very  pretty  reading." 

Dot  came  in,  and  she  went  away. 

She  j  ad  done  a  little  "  errand  for  her  mother."  A  very 
little  one  ;  she  did  not  deserve,  yet,  that  more  should  be 
given  her  to  do  ;  but  her  heart  went  up  saying  tenderly, 
remorsefully,  —  "  For  your  sake." 

And  back  into  her  heart  came  the  fulfillment  of  the 
promise,  —  "  He  that  doeth  it  in  the  name  of  a  disciple, 
shall  receive  a  disciple's  reward." 

These  comforts,  these  reprievals,  came  to  her;  then 
again,  she  went  down  into  the  blackness  of  the  old  mem 
ories,  the  old  self -accusations. 

After  she  had  found  her  way  to  Luclarion  Grapp's, 
she  used  sometimes,  when  these  things  seized  her,  to  tie 
on  her  bonnet,  pull  down  her  thick  veil,  and  crying  and 
whispering  behind  it  as  she  went,  —  "  Mother  !  Susie  ! 
do  you  know  how  I  love  you  now?  how  sorry  I  am?  " 
would  hurry  down,  through  the  busy  streets,  to  the 
Neighbors. 

"  Give  me  something  to  do,"  she  would  say,  when  she 
got  there. 

And  Luclarion  would  give  her  something  to  do  ;  would 
keep  her  to  tea,  or  to  dinner ;  and  in  the  quietness,  when 
they  were  left  by  themselves,  would  say  words  that  were 
given  her  to  say  in  her  own  character  and  fashion.  It  is 
so  blessed  that  the  word  is  given  and  repeated  in  so  many 
characters  and  fashions !  That  each  one  receives  it  and 
passes  it  on,  "  in  that  language  into  which  he  was  born." 

44  I  wish  you  could  hear  Luclarion  Grapp's  way  of  talk 
ing,"  Ray  Ingraham  had  said  to  her  just  after  she  had 
brought  her  home.  "  The  kind  of  comfort  she  finds  for 
the  most  wicked  and  miserable,  —  people  who  have  done 
such  shocking  things  as  you  never  dreamed  of." 


ERRANDS   OF  HOPE.  227 

"  I  want  to  hear  somebody  talk  to  the  very  wickedest. 
If  there's  any  chance  for  me,  there's  where  I  must  find  it. 
I  can't  listen  with  the  pretty-good  people,  any  longer. 
It  doesn't  belong  to  me,  or  do  me  any  good." 

"  Come  and  hear  the  gospel  then."  And  so  Ray  had 
taken  her  down  to  Neighbor  Street,  to  Luciano  :i  Grapp. 

"  But  the  sin  stays.  You  can't  wipe  the  fa  ^  out;  and 
you've  got  to  take  the  consequences,"  said  Marion  Kent 
to  the  strong,  simple  woman  to  whom  she  came  as  to  a 
second-seer,  to  have  her  spiritual  destinies  revealed  to 
her. 

"  Yes,"  said  Luclarion,  gravely,  but  very  sweetly,  "  you 
have.  But  the  (fonsjauences  wear  out.  Everything  wears 
out  but  the  Lord's  love.  And  these  old  worn-out  conse 
quences  —  why,  He  can  turn  them  into  blessings  :  and 
He  means  to,  as  they  go  along,  and  fade,  and  change ; 
until,  by  and  by,  we  may  be  safer  and  stronger,  and 
fuller  of  everlasting  life,  than  if  we  hadn't  had  them.  I 
was  vaccinated  a  while  ago  this  summer ;  everybody  was 
down  here;  and  I  had  a  pretty  sick  time.  It  took  — 
ferocious  !  Well,  I  got  over  it,  and  then  I  thought  about 
it.  I'd  got  something  out  of  my  system  forever,  that 
might  have  come  upon  me,  to  destruction,  all  of  a  sud 
den  ;  but  now  never  will !  It  appears  to  me  almost  as  if 
we  were  sent  into  this  world,  like  a  kind  of  hospital,  to  be 
vaccinated  against  the  awful  evil  —  in  our  souls  ;  to  suf 
fer  a  little  for  it ;  to  take  it  the  easiest  way  we  can  take 
it,  and  so  be  safe.  I  don't  know  —  and  if  you  hadn't 
repented,  I  wouldn't  put  it  into  your  head  ;  but  it's  been 
put  into  my  head,  after  I've  repented,  and  I  guess  it's 
mainly  true.  See  here  !  " 

And  she  took  down  a  big  leather-bound  Bible,  and 
opened  it  to  the  fortieth  chapter  of  Isaiah. 


228  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  Comfort  ye,  comfort  ye,  my  people,  saith  the  Lord. 
Speak  ye  comfortably  to  Jerusalem,  and  say  unto  her 
that  her  warfare  is  accomplished,  that  her  iniquity  is  par 
doned  ;  for  she  hath  received  of  the  Lord's  hand  double 
for  all  her  sins." 

"  The  Old  Testament  is  full  of  the  New ;  men's  wick 
edness,  —  it  took  wicked  men  to  show  the  way  of  the  Lord 
in  the  earth,  —  and  God's  forgiveness,  and  his  leading  it 
all  round  right,  in  spite  of  them  all !  Only  He  didn't  turn 
the  right  side  out  all  at  once  ;  it  wasn't  safe  to  let  them 
see  both  sides  then.  But  He  trusts  us  now  ;  He  gave  his 
whole  heart  in  Jesus  Christ ;  He  tells  us,  without  any 
keeping  back,  what  He  means  our  very  sins  shall  do  for 
us,  and  He  leaves  it  to  us,  after  that,  to  take  hold  and 
help  Him  !  " 

"  If  it  were'n't  for  them  !  If  I  hadn't  let  them  suffer 
and  die  !  " 

"Do  you  think  He  takes  all  this  care  of  you,  —  lets 
them  die  for  you  even,  — and  don't  take  as  much  for  them  ? 
Do  you  think  they  ain't  glad  and  happy  now  ?  Do  you 
think  you  could  have  hurt  them,  if  you  had  tried,  —  and 
you  didn't  try,  you  only  let  them  alone  a  little,  forgetting  ? 
It  says,  '  If  any  man  sin,  we  have  an  advocate  with  the 
Father,  Jesus  Christ  the  righteous ;  and  He  is  the  pro 
pitiation.'  If  we  have  somebody  to  take  part  with  us 
against  our  sins,  how  much  more  against  our  mistakes,  — 
our  forgettings  !  and  they  are  the  propitiation,  too  ;  their 
angels  —  the  Christ  of  them  —  do  always  behold  the  face 
of  the  Father.  Their  interceding  is  a  part  of  the  Lord's 
interceding." 

"  If  I  could  once  more  be  let  to  do  something  for  them, 
—  their  very  selves  !  " 

"  You   can.     You  can   pray,    '  Lord,  give  them  some 


ERRANDS   OF   HOPE.  229 

beautiful  heavenly  joy  this  day  that  thou  knowest  of,  for 
my  asking  ;  because  I  cannot  any  more  do  for  them  on 
the  earth.'  And  then  you  can  turn  round  to  their 
errands  again." 

Marion  stood  up  on  her  feet. 

"  I  will  say  that  prayer  for  them  every  day  !  I  shall 
believe  in  it,  because  you  told  me.  If  I  had  thought  of 
it  myself,  I  should  not  have  dared.  But  He  wouldn't 
send  such  a  message  by  you  if  He  didn't  mean  it ;  would 
He?" 

She  believed  in  the  God  of  Luclarion  Grapp,  as  the 
children  of  Israel  believed  in  the  God  of  Abraham. 

"He  never  sends  any  message  that  He  doesn't  mean. 
He  means  the  comfort,  just  as  much  as  He  does  the 
blaming." 

Another  day,  a  while  after,  Marion  came  down  to 
Neighbor  Street  with  something  very  much  on  her  mind 
to  say,  and  to  ask  about.  They  had  all  waited  for  her 
own  plans  to  suggest  themselves,  or  rather  for  her  work 
to  be  given  her  to  do.  No  one  had  mentioned,  or  urged, 
or  even  asked  anything  as  to  what  she  should  do  next. 

But  now  it  came  of  itself. 

"  Couldn't  I  get  a  place  in  some  asylum,  or  hospital, 
do  you  think,  Miss  Grapp  ?  To  be  anything  —  an  undei 
nurse,  or  housemaid,  or  a  cook  to  make  gruels  ?  So  that  I 
could  do  for  poor  women  and  little  children  ?  That  would 
seem  to  come  the  very  nearest.  I'd  come  here,  if  you 
wanted  me  ;  but  I  think  I  should  like  best  to  take  care 
of  poor,  good  women,  whose  children  had  died,  or  gone 
away ;  who  haven't  any  one  to  look  after  them  except 
asylum  people.  I  like  to  treat  them  as  if  they  were  all 
my  mothers  ;  and  especially  to  wait  on  any  little  girls 
that  might  be  sick." 


230  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

Was  this  the  same  Marion  Kent  who  had  given  her 
whole  soul,  a  little  while  ago,  to  fine  dressing  and  public 
appearing,  and  having  her  name  on  placards  ?  Had  all 
that  life  dropped  off  from  her  so  easily  ? 

Ah,  you  call  it  easily  !  She  knew,  how,  passing  through 
the  furnace,  it  had  been  burned  away  ;  shriveled  and 
annihilated  with  the  fierce,  hot  sweep  of  a  spiritual  flame 
before  which  all  old,  unworthy  desire  vanishes :  —  the 
living,  awful  breath  of  remorse. 

"  I've  no  doubt  you  can,"  said  Luclarion.  "  I'll  make 
inquiries.  Mrs.  Sheldon  comes  here  pretty  often  ;  and 
she  is  one  of  the  managers  of  the  Women  and  Children's 
Hospital.  They've  just  got  into  a  great,  new  building, 
and  there'll  be  people  wanted." 

"  I'll  begin  with  anything,  remember  ;  only  to  get  in, 
and  learn  how.  I'll  do  so  they'll  want  to  keep  me,  and 
give  me  more  ;  more  work,  I  mean.  If  I  could  come  to 
nursing,  and  being  depended  on !  " 

"  They  train  nurses,  regular,  there.  Learn  them,  so 
that  they  can  go  anywhere.  Then  you  might  some  time 
have  a  chance  to  go  to  somebody  that  needed  great  care ; 
some  sick  woman  or  child,  or  a  sick  mother,  with  little 
children  round  her  "  — 

"  And  every  day  send  up  some  good  turn  by  them  to 
mother  and  little  Sue  !  " 

So  they  bound  up  her  wounds  for  her,  and  poured  in 
the  oil  and  wine ;  so  they  put  her  on  their  own  beast  of 
service,  and  set  her  in  their  own  way,  and  brought  her 
to  a  place  of  abiding. 

Three  weeks  afterward,  she  went  in  as  housemaid  for 
the  children's  ward  to  the  Hospital ;  the  beautiful  charity 
which  stands,  a  token  of  the  real  best  growth  of  Boston, 
in  that  new  quarter  of  her  fast  enlarging  borders,  where 


ERRANDS  OF  HOPE. 


231 


the  tide  of  her  wealth  and  her  life  is  reaching  out  south 
ward,  toward  the  pure  country  pleasantness. 

We  must  leave  her  there,  now ;  at  rest  from  her  am 
bitions;  reaching  into  a  peace  they  could  never  have 
given  her  ;  doing  daily  work  that  comes  to  her  as  a  sign 
and  pledge  of  acceptance  and  forgiveness. 

She  sat  by  a  child's  bed  one  Sunday;  the  bed  of  a 
little  girl  ten  years  old,  whom  she  had  singled  out  to  do 
by  for  Susie's  sake.  She  had  taken  the  place  of  a  nurse, 
to-day,  who  was  ill  with  an  ague. 

She  read  to  Maggie  the  Bible  story  of  Joseph,  out  of 
a  little  book  for  children  that  had  been  Sue's. 

After  the  child  had  fallen  asleep,  Marion  fetched  her 
Bible,  to  look  back  after  something  in  the  Scripture 
words. 

It  had  come  home  to  her,  —  that  betrayal  and  desertion 
of  the  boy  by  his  brethren  ;  it  stood  with  her  now  for  a 
type  of  her  own  selfish  unfaithfulness  ;  it  thrust  a  rebuke 
and  a  pain  upon  her,  though  she  knew  she  had  repented. 
She  wanted  to  see  exactly  how  it  was,  when,  in  the 
Land  beyond  the  Desert,  his  brethren  came  face  to  face 
again  with  Joseph. 

"  Now,  therefore,  be  not  grieved,  nor  angry  with 
yourselves,  that  ye  sold  me  hither  ;  for  God  did  send  me 

before  you  to   preserve  life To  save   your   lives 

with  a  great  deliverance.     So  it  was  not  you  that  sent 

me  hither,  but  God And  thou  shalt  dwell  in  the 

land  of  Goshen,  and  thou  shalt  be  near  unto  me." 

A  great  throb  of  thankfulness,  of  gladness,  came  rush 
ing  up  in  her  ;  it  filled  her  eyes  with  light  ;  it  flushed 
her  cheeks  with  tender  color.  The  tears  sprung  shining ; 
but  they  did  not  fall.  Peace  stayed  them.  It  was  such 
an  answer ! 


232  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  How  pretty  you  are  ! "  said  Maggie,  awakening. 
"  Please,  give  me  a  drink  of  water." 

It  was  as  if  Susie  thought  of  it,  and  gave  her  the 
chance  !  She  read  secret,  loving  meanings  now,  in  things 
that  had  their  meanings  only  for  her.  She  believed  in 
spirit-communication,  —  for  she  knew  it  came  ;  but  in 
its  own  beautiful,  soul-to-soul  ways  ;  not  by  any  out 
ward  spells. 

She  went  for  the  water  ;  she  found  a  piece  of  ice  and 
put  in  it.  She  came  and  raised  the  little  head  tenderly, 
—  the  child  was  hurt  in  the  back,  and  could  not  be  lifted 
up,  —  and  held  the  goblet  to  the  gentle  lips ;  lips  patient, 
like  Sue's  ! 

"  O,  you  move  me  so  nice  !  You  give  me  the  drink  so 
handy  !  " 

The  beauty  was  in  Marion's  face  still,  warm  with  an 
inward  joy  ;  the  child's  eyes  followed  her  as  she  rose 
from  bending  over  her. 

"  Real  pretty,"  she  said  again,  softly,  liking  to  look  at 
her.  And  "  real  "  was  beginning  to-be  the  word,  at  last, 
for  Marion  Kent. 

The  glory  of  that  poem  she  had  read,  thinking  only  of 
her  own  petty  triumph,  came  suddenly  over  her  thought 
by  some  association,  —  she  could  not  trace  out  how.  Its 
grand  meaning  was  u  meaning,  all  at  once,  for  her.  With 
a  changed  phrasing,  like  a  heavenly  inspiration,  the  last 
line  sprang  up  in  her  mind,  as  if  somebody  stood  by  and 
spoke  it :  — 

"These  are  the  lambs  of  the  sacrifice:  this  is  the  court  of  the  King!  " 


BRICKFIELD    FARMS.  233 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 

BRICKFIELD   FARMS. 

1 T  was  a  rainy,  desolate  day. 

It  had  rained  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  yester 
day,  and  half  cleared  up  last  night ;  then  this  morning  it 
had  sullenly  and  tiresomely  begun  again. 

All  the  forenoon  it  grew  worse  ;  in  the  afternoon, 
heavy,  pelting,  streaming  showers  came  down,  filling  the 
Kiln  Hollow  with  mist,  and  hiding  the  tops  of  the  hills 
about  it  with  low,  rolling,  ever-gathering  and  resolving 
clouds. 

It  seemed  as  if  all  the  autumn  joy  were  over ;  as  if 
the  pleasant  days  were  done  with  till  another  year. 
After  this,  the  cold  would  set  in. 

Mrs.  Jeffords  had  a  bright  fire  built  in  Mrs.  Argenter's 
room ;  another  in  the  family  sitting-room.  It  looked 
cosy  ;  but  it  reminded  the  sojourners  that  they  had  not 
simply  to  draw  themselves  into  winter-quarters,  and  be 
comfortable ;  their  winter-quarters  were  yet  to  seek. 

Sylvie  had  been  cracking  a  plateful  of  butternuts ; 
picking  out  meats,  I  mean,  from  the  cracked  nuts,  to 
make  a  plateful ;  and  that,  if  you  know  butternuts,  you 
know  is  no  small  task.  She  brought  them  to  her  mother, 
with  some  grated  maple  sugar  sprinkled  among  and  over 
them. 

"  This  is  what  you  liked  so  much  at  the  Shakers',  in 
Lebanon,"  she  said.  "  See  if  it  isn't  as  nice  as  theirs.  I 
think  it  is  fresher.  Here  is  a  tiny  little  pickle-fork,  to 
eat  with." 


234  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Mrs.  Argeiiter  took  the  offered  dainty. 

"  You  are  a  dear  child,"  she  said.  "  Come  and  eat 
some  too." 

"  O,  I  ate  as  I  went  along.  Now,  I'll  read  to  you." 
And  she  took  up  "  Blindpits,"  which  her  mother  had  laid 
down. 

"  If  it  only  wouldn't  storm  so,"  said  Mrs.  Argenter. 
"  Mrs.  Jeffords  says  there  will  be  a  freshet.  The  roads 
will  be  all  torn  up.  We  shall  never  be  able  to  get  home." 

"  O  yes,  we  shall,"  said  Sylvie,  cheerily ;  putting 
down  the  wonder  that  arose  obtrusively  in  her  own  mind 
as  to  where  the  home  would  be  that  they  should  go  to. 

"Did  Mrs.  Jeffords  tell  you  about  last  year's  freshet ? 
And  the  apples  ?  " 

"  She  said  they  had  an  awful  flood.  The  brooks 
turned  into  rivers,  and  the  rivers  swallowed  up  every 
thing." 

"  O,  she  didn't  get  to  the  funny  part,  then  ?  "  said 
Sylvie.  "  She  didn't  tell  you  about  the  apples  ?  " 

"  No.  I  think  she  keeps  the  funny  parts  for  you,  Syl 
vie." 

"  May  be  she  does.  She  isn't  sure  that  you  feel  up  to 
them,  always.  But  I  guess  she  means  them  to  come 
round,  when  she  tells  them  to  me.  You  see  they,  had 
just  been  gathering  their  apples,  in  that  great  lower 
orchard,  —  five  acres  of  trees,  and  such  a  splendid  crop  ! 
There  they  were,  all  piled  up,  —  can't  you  imagine  ?  A 
perfect  picture !  Red  heaps,  and  yellow  heaps ;  and 
greenings,  and  purple  pearmains,  and  streaked  seek-no- 
furthers.  Like  great  piles  of  autumn  leaves !  Well, 
the  flood  came,  and  rose  up  over  the  flats,  into  the  lower 
end  of  the  orchard.  They  went  down  over  night,  and 
moved  all  the  piles  further  up.  The  next  day,  they  had 


BBICKFIELD   FARMS.  235 

to  move  them  again.  And  the  next  morning  after  that, 
when  they  woke  up,  the  whole  orchard  was  under  water, 
and  every  apple  gone.  Mr.  Jeffords  said  he  got  down 
just  in  time  to  see  the  last  one  swim  round  the  corner. 
And  when  the  flood  had  fallen,  —  there,  half  a  mile  be 
low,  spread  out  over  the  meadow,  was  three  hundred 
barrels  of  apple  sauce  !  " 

Mrs.  Argenter  laughed  a  feeble  little  expected  laugh  ; 
her  heart  was  not  free  to  be  amused  with  an  apple-story. 
No  wonder  Mrs.  Jeffords  kept  the  funny  parts  for  Sylvie. 
Mrs.  Argenter  quenched  her  before  she  could  possibly 
get  to  them.  But  was  Sylvie's  heart  free  for  amuse 
ment  ?  What  was  the  difference  ?  The  years  between 
them  ?  Mrs.  Jeffords  was  a  far  older  woman  than  Mrs. 
Argenter,  and  had  had  her  cares  and  troubles  ;  yet  she 
and  Sylvie  laughed  like  two  girls  together,  over  their 
work  and  their  stories.  That  was  it,  —  the  work  !  Syl 
vie  was  doing  all  she  could.  The  cheerfulness  of  doing 
followed  irresistibly  after,  into  the  loops  and  intervals  of 
time,  and  kept  out  the  fear  and  the  repining. 

"  There  was  nothing  that  chippered  you  up  so,  as  being 
real  driving  busy,"  Mrs.  Jeffords  said. 

Mrs.  Argenter  sat  in  her  low  easy-chair,  watched  away 
the  time,  and  worried  about  the  time  to  come.  It  left  no 
leisure  for  a  laugh. 

Perhaps  the  hardest  thing  that  Sylvie  did  through  the 
day,  was  the  setting  to  work  to  "  chipper  "  her  mother 
up.  It  was  lifting  up  a  weight  that  continually  dropped 
back  again. 

"Do  they  think  this  rain  will  ever  be  over  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Argenter,  turning  her  face  toward  the  dripping 
panes  again. 

"  Why,  yes,  mother ;   rains    always    have  been   over, 


236  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

sometime.     They  never  knew  one  that  wasn't,  and  they 
go  by  experience." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  upon  the  rain  topic, 
after  that  simple  piece  of  logic. 

"  If  there  doesn't  come  Badgett  up  the  hill  in  all  the 
pour!" 

Badgett  drove  the  daily  stage  from  Tillington  up 
through  Pemunk  and  Sandon.  He  came  round  by 
Brickfields  when  there  was  anybody  to  bring. 

Badgett  drove  up  over  the  turf  door-yard,  close  to  the 
porch.  He  jumped  off,  unbuttoned  the  dripping  canvas 
door,  and  flung  it  up. 

Mrs.  Jeffords  was  in  the  entry  on  the  instant ;  sur 
prised,  puzzled,  but  all  ready  to  be  hospitable,  to  she 
didn't  know  whom.  Relations  from  Indiana,  as  likely  as 
not.  That  is  the  way  people  arrive  in  the  country  ;  and 
a  whole  houseful  to  stay  over  night  does  not  startle  the 
hostess  as  an  unexpected  guest  to  dinner  may  a  city  one. 

But  the  persons  who  alighted  from  the  clumsy  stage- 
wagon  were  Mr.  Christopher  Kirkbright,  Miss  Euphra- 
sia,  and  Desire  Ledwith. 

"  Didn't  you  get  our  letter  ?  "  said  Miss  Euphrasia,  as 
Sylvie,  from  her  mother's  door-way,  saw  who  she  was, 
and  sprang  forward. 

"  Why.  no,  we  didn't  get  no  letter,"  said  Mrs.  Jef 
fords.  "  Father  hasn't  been  to  ,h<>  oillce  for  two  days, 
it's  stormed  so  continual.  But  you'ro  just  as  welcome, 
exactly.  Step  right  in  here."  And  she  flung  open  the 
door  of  her  best  parlor,  where  the  new  boughten  carpet 
was,  for  the  damp  feet  and  the  dripping  waterproof. 

44  No,  indeed  ;  not  there  ;  we  couldn't  have  the  con- 
ace." 
'Tain't  very  comfortable  either,  after  all,"  said  Mrs. 


BEICKFIELD   FARMS.  237 

Jeffords,  changing  her  own  mind  in  a  bustle.  "  It's  been 
kinder  shut  up.  Come  right  out  to  the  sittin'-room-fire, 
finally." 

Mr.  Kirkbright  and  Miss  Ledwith  followed  her  ;  Miss 
Euphrasia  went  right  into  Mrs.  Argenter's  room,  after 
she  had  taken  off  her  waterproof  in  the  hall. 

As  she  came  in  at  the  door,  a  great  flash  of  sunshine 
streamed  from  under  the  western  clouds,  in  at  the  parlor 
window,  followed  her  across  the  hall  and  enveloped  her 
in  light  as  she  entered. 

"  Why,  the  storm's  over !  "  cried  Sylvie,  joyfully. 
"  You  come  in  on  a  sunbeam,  like  the  Angel  Gabriel. 
But  you  always  do.  How  came  you  to  come  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  answer  your  letter.  You  know  I  don't 
like  to  write  very  well.  And  I've  brought  my  brother, 
and  a  dear  friend  of  mine  whom  I  want  you  to  know.  It 
did  not  rain  in  Boston  when  we  started,  but  it  came  on 
again  before  noon,  and  all  the  afternoon  it  has  been  a 
splendid  down-pour.  Something  really  worth  while  to 
be  out  in,  you  know  ;  not  a  little  exasperating  drizzle. 
That's  the  kind  of  rain  one  can't  bear,  and  catches  cold 
in.  How  the  showers  swept  round  the  hills,  and  the  cas 
cades  thundered  and  flashed  as  we  came  by  !  What  a 
lovely  region  you  have  discovered !  " 

"  It's  so  beautiful  that  you're  here  !  We'll  go  down  to 
the  cascades  to-morrow.  Won't  you  just  come  and  intro 
duce  me  to  the  others,  and  then  come  back  to  mother  ?  " 

The  others  were  in  the  family-room,  which  was  also 
dining-room.  In  the  kitchen  beyond,  Mrs.  Jeffords' 
stove  was  roaring  up  for  an  early  tea,  and  she  was  whip 
ping  griddle-cakes  together. 

"  My  brother,  Mr.  Kirkbright  —  Miss  Argenter.  Miss 
Desire  Ledwith  —  Sylvie." 


238  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

The  two  girls  shook  hands,  and  looked  in  each  others' 
faces. 

"  How  clear,  and  strong,  and  trusty  ! "  Sylvie  thought. 

"  You  dear  little  spirit !  "  thought  Desire,  seeing  the 
delicate  face,  and  the  brave  sweetness  through  it. 

This  was  the  second  real  introduction  Miss  Euphrasia 
had  made  within  ten  days.  It  was  a  great  deal,  of  that 
sort,  to  happen  in  such  space  of  time. 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  storm,  we  might  have  hurried 
down  and  missed  you.  Mother  was  beginning  to  dread 
the  coming  on  of  the  cold,"  said  Sylvie.  "  But  the  rain 
came  and  settled  it,  for  just  now.  That  rested  me.  A 
real  good  c  can't  help  '  is  such  a  comfort." 

"  The  "Father's  No.  Shutting  us  in  with  its  grand, 
gentle  forbiddance.  Many  a  rain-storm  is  that.  I  al 
ways  feel  so  safe  when  I  am  shut  up  by  really  impossible 
weather." 

After  the  tea,  they  were  still  in  time  for  the  whole 
sunset,  wonderful  after  the  storm. 

Desire  had  gone  from  the  table  to  the  half-glazed  door 
which  opened  from  the  room  into  a  broad  porch,  looking 
out  directly  across  the  hollow,  along  a  valley-line  of  side- 
hills,  to  the  distant  blue  peaks. 

"  O,  come  !  "  she  cried  back  to  the  others,  as  she  has 
tened  out  upon  the  platform.  "  It  is  marvelous  !  " 

Heavy  lines  of  clouds  lay  banked  together  in  the  west, 
black  with  the  remnant  and  recoil  of  tempest ;  between 
these,  through  rifts  and  breaks,  poured  down  the  sun 
light  across  bright  spaces  into  the  bosoms  of  the  hills, 
lighting  them  up  with  revelations.  The  sloping  outlines 
shone  golden  green  with  lingering  summer  color,  and  dis 
covered  each  separate  wave  and  swell  of  upland.  The 
searching  shafts  fell  upon  every  tree  and  bush  and  spire, 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS.  239 

moving  slowly  over  them  and  illuminating  point  after 
point,  making  each  suddenly  seem  distinct  and  near. 
What  had  been  a  mere  margin  of  distant  woods,  stood 
eliminated  and  relieved  in  bough  and  stem  and  leafage, 
with  a  singular  pre-Raphaelitic  individuality.  It  was  the 
standing-out  of  all  tilings  in  the  last  radiance  ;  called  up, 
one  by  one  under  the  flash  of  judgment  —  beautiful,  clear, 
terrible. 

Then  the  clouds  themselves,  as  the  sun  dropped  down, 
drank  in  the  splendor.  They  turned  to  rose  and  crim 
son  ;  they  floated,  and  spread,  and  broke,  and  drifted  up 
the  valley,  against  the  hills  on  right  and  left.  Rags. and 
shreds  of  them,  trailing  gorgeous  with  color,  clung  where 
the  ridges  caught  them,  and  streamed  like  fragments  of 
heavenly  banners.  The  sky  repeated  the  October  woods, 
—  the  woods  the  sky,  —  in  vivid  numberless  hues. 

The  sunset  rolled  up  and  around  the  watchers  as  they 
gazed.  They  were  in  it ;  it  lay  at  their  very  feet,  and 
beside  them  at  either  hand.  Below,  the  sheet  of  water 
in  the  "  Clay-Pits,"  gleamed  like  burnished  gold.  Here 
and  there,  from  among  the  tree-tops,  came  up  the 
smoke  of  little  cascades,  reaching  for  baptism  into  the 
pervading  glory. 

It  was  chilly,  and  they  had  to  go  in  ;  but  they  kept 
coming  back  to  window  and  door,  looking  out  through 
the  closed  sashes,  and  calling,  "  Now !  now !  O,  was 
there  ever  anything  like  that  ?  " 

At  last  it  turned  into  a  heavenly  vision  of  still,  far, 
shining  waters ;  the  earth  and  the- pools  upon  it  dark 
ened,  and  the  sky  gathered  up  into  itself  the  glory,  and 
disclosed  its  own  wider  and  diviner  beauty. 

A  great  rampart  of  gray,  blue,  violet  clouds  lay  jagged, 
grand,  like  rocks  along  a  shore.  Up  over  them  rushed 


240  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

light,  crimson  surf,  foaming,  tossing.  Beyond,  a  rosy 
sea.  In  it,  little  golden  boats  floated.  The  flamy  light 
flung  itself  up  into  the  calm  zenith  ;  there  it  met  the  still 
heaven-color,  and  the  sky  was  tender  with  saffron-touched 
blue. 

So  the  tempest  of  trouble  met  the  tempest  of  love  in 
the  end  of  the  day,  and  the  world  rolled  on  into  the  night 
under  the  glory  and  peace  of  their  rushing  and  melting 
together. 

After  all  that,  they  came  back  by  a  step  and  a  word, 
—  these  mortal  observers,  —  to  practical  consultation  such 
as  mortals  must  have,  and  especially  if  they  be  upon  their 
travels  ;  to  questions  about  bestowal,  and  the  homely, 
kindly,  funny  little  details  of  Mrs.  Jeffords'  hospitality. 

"  Where  should  she  put  them  ?  Why,  she  was  always 
ready.  To  be  sure,  the  front  upper  room  had  had  the 
carpets  taken  up  since  the  summer  company  went,  and 
the  beds  were  down ;  but,  la,  there  was  room  enough !  " 

"  There's  the  east  down-stairs  bedroom,  and  the  little 
west-room  over  the  sittin'-room,  and  there's  my  room  !  I 
ain't  never  put  out !  " 

"  But  you  are  ;  out  of  your  room  ;  and  you  ought  not 
to  be." 

"  Don't  care ! "  said  Mrs.  Jeffords,  triumphantly. 
"  There's  the  kitchen  bedroom,  that  I  keep  apurpose 
to  camp  down  in.  It's  all  right.  I)on't  you  worry." 

"  You  never  care  ;  that's  the  reason  I  do  worry,"  said 
Sylvie. 

"  I've  learnt  not  to  care,"  said  Mrs.  Jeffords.  "  'Tain't 
no  use.  You  must  take  things  as  they  are.  "They  Avill 
be  so,  and  you  can't  help  it.  If  they  fall  rig! it  side  up, 
well  and  good  ;  if  they're  wrong  side  up,  let  'cm  lay  ! 
And  they  ain't  wrong  side  up  yet,  I  can  tell  you.  You 
just  go  and  sit  down  and  enjoy  yourselves." 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS.  241 

Mrs.  Argenter  was  brighter  this  evening  than  she  had 
been  for  a  long  while.  «  It  was  nice  to  be  among  people 
again,"  she  said,  when  the  evening  was  over. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Sylvie.  "  But  somehow  I  didn't  feel 
the  difference  the  other  way.  I  think  I  always  am 
among  people.  At  least  it  never  seems  to  me  as  if  they 
were  very  far  off.  Next  door  mayn't  Ije  exactly  along 
side,  but  it  is  next  door  for  all  that,  and  it  is  in  the 
world.  And  the  world  wakes  up  all  together  every  morn 
ing,  —  that  is,  as  fast  as  the  morning  gets  round." 

With  her  "mayn't  be V  and  her  «  is'es,"  Sylvie  was 
unconsciously  making  a  habit  of  the  trick  of  Susan  Nip 
per,  but  with  a  kindlier  touch  to  her  antitheses  than  per 
tained  to  those  of  that  acerb  damsel. 

Mrs.  Argenter  wanted  tangible  presences.  She  had  not 
reached  so  far  as  her  child  into  that  inner  living  where  all 
feel  each  other,  knowing  that  "  these  same  tribulations  " 
-and  joys  also —  are  accomplished  among  the  brother 
hood  that  is  in  all  the  earth  ;  knowing,  too,  —  ah  I  that  is 
the  blessedness  when  we  come  to  it,  —that  we  may  walk, 
already,  in  the  heavenly  places  with  all  them  that  are 
alive  unto  each  other  in  the  Lord. 

The  next  morning  after  deep  rains  in  a  hill-country  is 
a  morning  of  wonders;  if  you  can  go  out  among  them 
and  know  where  to  find  them.  Down  the  ravines,  from 
the  far  back,  greater  heights,  rush  and  plunge  the  streams 
whitened  with  ecstasy,  turned  to  sweet  wild  harmonies  as 
they  go.  It  is  a  day  of  glory  for  the  water-drops  that 
are  born  to  make  a  part  of  it. 

Sylvie  knew  the  way  down  through  the  glen,  from  fall 

to  fall,  half   a  mile  apart.     She  and  Bob  Jeffords  had 

come  down  to  them,  time  and  again;  after  nearly  every 

btle  summer  shower ;  for  with  all  the  heat,  the  night 


242  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

rains  had  been  plentiful  and  frequent,  and  the  water 
courses  had  been  kept  full.  The  brick-fields,  that  looked 
so  near  from  the  farms,  were  really  more  than  two  miles 
away ;  and  it  was  a  constant  descent,  from  brow  to  brow, 
over  the  range  of  uplands  between  the  Jeffords'  place  and 
the  Basin. 

"  The  First  Cataracts  are  in  here,"  said  Sylvie,  glee 
fully,  leading  the  way  in  by  a  bar-place  upon  a  very  wet 
path,  the  wetness  of  which  nobody  minded,  all  having 
come  defended  with  rubbers  and  waterproofs,  and  tucked 
up  their  petticoats  boot-high.  Great  bosks  of  ferns  grew 
beside,  and  here  and  there  a  bush  burning  with  autumn 
color.  Everything  shone  and  dripped ;  the  very  stones 
glittered. 

They  climbed  up  rocky  slopes,  on  which  the  short  gray 
moss  grew,  cushiony.  They  followed  the  line  of  maples 
and  alders  and  evergreens  that  sentineled  and  hid  away 
the  shouting  stream,  spreading  their  skirts  and  inter 
twining  their  arms  to  shelter  it,  like  the  privacy  of  some 
royal  child  at  play,  and  to  keep  back  from  the  pilgrims 
the  beautiful  surprise.  Upon  a  rough  table-ledge,  they 
came  to  it  at  last;  the  place  where  they  could  lean  in 
between  the  trees,  and  overlook  and  underlook  the 
shining  tumult,  —  the  shifting,  yet  enduring  apparition 
of  delight. 

It  came  in  two  leaps,  down  a  winding  channel,  through 
which  it  seemed  to  turn  and  spring,  like  some  light,  grace 
ful,  impetuous  living  creature.  You  felt  it  reach  the  first 
rock-landing ;  you  were  conscious  of  the  impetus  which 
forced  it  on  to  take  the  second  spring  which  brought  it 
down  beneath  your  feet.  And  it  kept  coming  —  coming  ! 
It  was  an  eternal  moment ;  a  swift,  vanishing,  yet  never 
over-and-done  movement  of  grace  and  splendor.  That  is 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS.  243 

the  magic  of  a  waterfall.  Something  exquisite  by  very 
suggestion  of  evanescence,  caught  in  transitu,  and  held 
for  the  eye  and  mind  to  dwell  on. 

They  were  never  tired  of  looking.  The  chance  would 
not  come,  —  that  ought  to  be  a  pause,  —  for  them  to  turn 
and  go  away. 

"But  there  are  more,"  Sylvie  said  at  length,  admonish 
ing  them.  "  And  the  Second  Cataract  is  grander  than 
this." 

"  You  number  them  going  down,"  said  Mr.  Kirk- 
bright. 

"  Yes.  People  always  number  things  as  they  come  to 
them,  don't  they  ?  Our  first  is  somebody's  else  last,  I 
suppose,  always." 

"  What  a  little  spirit  that  is  !  "  said  Christopher  Kirk- 
bright  to  Miss  Euphrasia,  dropping  back  to  help  his  sis 
ter  down  a  rocky  plunge. 

"  A  little  spirit  waked  up  by  touch  of  misfortune,"  said 
Miss  Euphrasia.  "  She  would  have  gone  through  life 
blindfolded  by  purple  and  fine  linen,  if  things  had  been 
left  as  they  were  with  her." 

Desire  and  Sylvie  walked  on  together. 

"  Leave  them  alone,"  said  Miss  Kirkbright  to  her 
brother.  And  she  stopped,  and  began  to  gather  handfuls 
of  the  late  ferns. 

Now  she  had  the  chance  given  her,  Desire  said  it 
straight  out,  as  she  said  everything. 

"  I  came  up  here  after  you,  Miss  Argenter.  Did  you 
know  it  ?  " 

"  No.     After  me  ?     How  ?  "  asked  Sylvie. 

"  To  see  if  you  and  your  mother  would  come  and  make 
your  home  with  us  this  winter,  —  pretty  much  as  you  do 
with  Mrs.  Jeffords.  I  can  say  ws,  because  Hazel  Rip- 


244  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

winkley,  my  cousin,  is  with  me  nearly  all  tlie  time ;  but 
for  the  rest  of  it,  I  am  all  the  family  there  really  is,  now 
that  Rachel  Froke  has  gone  away  ;  unless  you  came  to 
call  my  dear  old  Frendely  i  family,'  as  I  do  ;  seeing  that, 
next  to  Rachel,  she  is  root  and  spring  of  it.  You  could 
help  me  ;  you  could  help  her  ;  and  I  think  you  would  like 
my  work.  I  should  be  glad  of  you  ;  and  your  mother 
could  have  Rachel  Froke's  gray  parlor.  It  is  a  one-sided 
proposition,  because,  you  see,  I  know  all  about  you  al 
ready,  from  Miss  Euphrasia.  You  will  have  to  take  me 
at  hazard,  and  find  out  by  trying." 

"Do  you  think  the  old  proverb  isn't  as  true  of  good 
words  as  of  mischief,  —  that  a  dog  who  will  fetch  a  bone 
will  carry  a  bone  ?  "  said  Sylvie,  laughing  with  the  same 
impulse  by  which  clear  drops  stood  suddenly  in  her  eyes, 
and  a  quick  rosiness  came  into  her  face.  "  Do  you  sup 
pose  Miss  Euphrasia  hasn't  told  me  of  you  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  I  was  one  of  the  people  to  be  told 
about,"  said  Desire,  simply.  "  Do  you  think  you  could 
come  ?  .  Miss  Euphrasia  believed  it  would  be  what  you 
wanted.  There  is  plenty  of  room,  and  plenty  of  work. 
I  want  you  to  know  that  I  mean  to  keep  you  honestly 
busy,  because  then  you  will  understand  that  things  come 
out  honestly  even." 

"  Even  !     Dear  Miss  Ledwith  I  " 

"  Then  you'll  try  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  Miss  Euphrasia  or  you." 

"  There  are  no  thanks  in  the  bargain,"  said  Desire, 
smiling.  "  I  want  you  ;  if  you  want  me,  it  is  a  Q.  E.  D. 
If  we  do  dispute  about  anything,  we'll  leave  it  out  to 
Miss  Euphrasia.  She  knows  how  to  make  everything 
right.  She  shall  be  our  broker.  It  is  a  good  thing  to 
have  one,  in  some  kinds  of  trade." 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS.  245 

They  had  come  around  the  curve  in  the  road  now,  that 
brought  them  alongside  the  shady  gorge  at  the  foot  of 
Cone  Hill.  Here  was  the  little  group  of  brick-makers' 
houses ;  empty,  weather-beaten,  their  door-yards  over 
grown  with  brakes  and  mulleins.  Beyond,  up  the  ledge, 
to  which  a  rough  drive-way,  long  disused,  led  off,  was  the 
quaint,  rambling  edifice  that  with  its  feet  of  stone  and 
brick  went  "  walking  up  "  the  mountain. 

"  You  must  go  in  and  see  it,"  Sylvie  said.  "  But  first, 
—  this  is  the  way  to  the  cascade." 

Another  bar-place  let  them  in  again  to  another  narrow, 
wild,  bush-grown  path  around  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  the 
lower  spur  of  the  great  hill  ;  and  down  over  shelving 
rocks,  a  long,  gradual  descent,  to  the  foot  of  the  fall. 

The  water  foamed  and  rippled  to  their  feet,  as  they 
walked  along  its  varying  edge-line  on  the  smooth,  sloping 
stone  that  stretched  back  against  the  perpendicular  ram 
part  of  the  cliff.  The  fall  itself  was  hidden  in  the  turn 
around  which,  above,  they  had  followed  the  tangled  path 
way. 

At  the  farthest  projection  of  the  platform  they  were 
now  treading,  they  came  upon  it  ;  beneath  it,  rather  ; 
they  looked  back  and  up  at  its  showery  silver  sheet,  fall 
ing  in  sweet,  continual  thunder  into  the  dark,  hollow, 
rock-encircled  pool,  thence  to  tumble  away  headlong, 
from  point  to  point,  lower  and  lower  yet,  by  a  thousand 
little  breaks  and  plunges,  till  it  came  out  into  a  broad 
meadow  stretch  miles  and  miles  away. 

"  What  a  hurry  it  is  in,  to  get  down  where  it  is 
wanted,"  said  Desire. 

She  had  seated  herself  beside  the  curling  edge  of  the 
swift  stream,  where  it  seemed  to  trace  and  keep  by  its 
own  will  its  boundary  upon  the  nearly  level  rock,  and 


246  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

was  gazing  up  where  the  white  radiance  poured  itself  as 
if  direct  from  out  the  blue  above. 

Mr.  Kirkbright  stood  behind  her. 

"  Most  things  come  to  us  at  last  so  quietly,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  good  to  feel  and  see  what  a  rush  it  starts  with,  — 
out  of  that  heart  of  heaven." 

Desire  had  not  said  that ;  but  it  was  just  what  she  had 
been  feeling.  Eager  to  get  to  us  ;  coming  in  a  hurry. 
Was  that  God's  impulse  toward  us  ? 

"  Making  haste  to  help  and  satisfy  the  world,"  Mr. 
Kirkbright  said  again. 

"  A  river  of  clear  water  of  life,  coming  down  out  of  the 
throne,"  said  Miss  Euphrasia.  "  What  a  sign  it  is  !  " 

Mr.  Kirkbright  walked  along  the  margin  of  the  ledge, 
farther  and  farther  down.  He  tried  with  his  stick  some 
stones  that  lay  across  the  current  at  a  narrow  point  where 
beneath  the  opposite  cliff  it  bent  and  turned  away,  losing 
itself  from  their  sight  as  they  stood  here.  Then  he 
sprang  across ;  crept,  stooping,  along  the  narrow  foot 
hold  under  the  projecting  rock,  until  he  could  follow  with 
his  eye  the  course  of  the  rapid  water,  falling  continually 
to  its  lower  level  as  it  sped  on  and  on,  all  its  volume 
gathered  in  one  deep,  rocky,  unchangeable  bed. 

"  What  a  waiting  power  !  "  he  exclaimed,  springing 
safely  back,  and  coming  up  toward  them.  "  What  a 
stream  for  mills  !  And  it  turns  nothing  but  the  farmers' 
grists,  till  it  gets  to  Tillington." 

Desire  was  a  very  little  disappointed  at  this  utilitarian 
ism.  She  had  been  so  glad  and  satisfied  with  the  reading 
of  its  type  ;  the  type  of  its  far-back  impulse. 

"  If  there  had  been  mills  here,  we  should  not  have  seen 
that,"  she  said ;  forgetting  to  explain  what. 

But  Christopher  Kirkbright  knew. 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS. 


247 


«  What  was  it  that  we  did  see  ?  "  lie  asked,  coming 

beside  her. 

"  The  gracious  hurry,"  she  answered,  with  a  half-vexec 

surprise  in  her  eyes. 

"  And  what  is  the  next  thing  to  seeing  that 
it  to  partake  ?     To  be  in  a   gracious  hurry  also,  if  we 

can?" 

A  smile   came   up   now  in  Desire's  face,  and  efface 

gently  the  vexation  and  the  surprise. 

3  «  Do  you  know  what  a  legible  face  you  have  ?  "  asked 

Mr.  Kirkbright,  seating  himself  near  her  on  a  step  of 

rock. 

Desire  was  a  little  disturbed  again  by  this  movement. 
The  others  had  begun  to  walk  on,  up  the  ledge,  toward 
the  old  brick  house  ;  gathering  as  they  went,  ferns  that 
had  escaped  the  frost,  others  that  had  delicately  whitened 
in  it,  and  gorgeous  maple-leaves,  •  swept  from  topmost, 
inaccessible  branches,  —  where  the  most  .glorious  color 
always  hangs, —  by  last  night's  rain  and  wind. 

It  was  so  foolish  of  her  to  have  sat  there  until  he  came 
and  did  this.  Now  she  could  not  get  right  up  and  go 
away.  This  feeling,  coming  simultaneously  with  his 
question  about  her  legible  face,  was  doubly  uncomforta 
ble.  But  she  had  to  answer.  She  did  it  briefly. 

"  Yes.     It   is   a   great   bother.      I    don't   like   coarse 

print." 

"  Nor  I.  But  my  eyes  are  good  ;  and  the  fine  print  is 
clear.  I  should  like  very  much  to  tell  you  of  something 
that  I  have  to  do,  Miss  Ledwith.  I  should  like  your 
thoughts  upon  it.  For,  you  see,  I  have  hardly  yet  got 
acquainted  with  my  ground.  From  what  my  sister  tells 
me,  I  think  your  work  leads  naturally  up  to  mine, 
should  like  to  find  put  whether  it  is  quite  ready  for  the 
join." 


248  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  I  haven't  much  work,"  said  Desire.  "  Luclarion 
Grapp  has ;  and  Miss  Kirkbright,  and  Mr.  Vireo.  I 
only  help,  —  with  some  money  that  belongs  to  it." 

"  And  I  have  more  money  that  belongs  to  it,"  said  Mr. 
Kirkbright. 

It  was  a  curious  way  for  a  rich  man  and  a  rich  woman 
to  talk  to  each  other,  about  their  money.  But  I  do  not 
believe  it  ought  to  be  curious. 

"  Don't  you  often  come  across  people  who  cannot  be 
helped  much  just  where  they  are  ?  Don't  you  feel,  some 
times,  that  there  ought  to  be  a  place  to  send  them  to, 
away,  out  of  their  old  tracks,  where  they  could  begin 
again  ;  or  even  hide  a  while,  in  shame  and  repentance,  be 
fore  they  dare  to  begin  again?  " 

"  I  know  Luclarion  does,"  said  Desire,  earnestly. 
She  would  have  it,  still,  that  there  was  no  work  in  her 
own  name  for  him  to  ask  about. 

"  I  must  see  this  Luclarion  of  yours,"  said  Mr.  Kirk 
bright.  "  Meanwhile,  since  I  have  got  you  to  talk  to,  pray 
tell  me  all  you  can,  whoever  found  it  out.  Isn't  there  a 
need  for  a  City  of  Refuge  ?  And  suppose  a  place  like 
this,  away  from  the  towns,  where  God's  beautiful  water 
is  coming  down  in  a  hurry,  with  a  cry  of  power  in  every 
leap,  —  where  there  is  a  great  lake-basin  full  of  material 
for  work,  just  stored  away  against  men's  need  for  their 
earning  and  their  building,  —  suppose  this  place  taken 
and  used  for  the  giving  of  a  new  chance  of  life  to  those 
who  have  failed  and  gone  wrong,  or  have  perhaps  hardly 
ever  had  any  right  chances.  Do  you  think  we  could 
manage  it  so  as  to  keep  it  a  place  of  refuge  and  new  be 
ginning,  and  not  let  it  spoil  itself  ?  " 

"  With  the  right  people  at  each  end,  why  not  ?  "  said 
Desire.  "  But  O,  Mr.  Kirkbright !  how  can  I  tell  you  ? 
It  is  such  a  great  idea  ;  and  I  don't  know  anything." 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS.  249 

These  words,  that  she  happened  to  say,  brought  back 
to  her  —  by  one  of  those  little  lightning  threads  that 
hold  things  together,  and  flash  and  thrill  our  recollections 
through  us  —  the  rainy  morning  when  she  went  round 
in  the  storm  to  her  Aunt  Ripwinkley's,  because  she  could 
not  sit  in  the  bay-window  at  home,  and  wonder  whether 
"  it  was  all  finished,"  or  whether  anybody  had  got  to 
contrive  anything  more,  "before  they  could  sit  behind 
plate-glass  and  let  it  rain."  She  remembered  it  all  by 
those  same  words  that  she  had  spoken  then  to  Rachel 
Froke, —  "  Behold,  we  know  not  anything,  —  Tennyson 
and  I !  " 

Nonsense  stays  by  us,  often,  in  stickier  fashion  than 
sense  does  ;  that  is  the  good  of  nonsense,  perhaps  ;  it 
sticks,  and  draws  the  sense  along  after  it. 

"  I  think  one  thing  is  certain,"  said  Mr.  Kirkbright. 
"  Human  creatures  are  made  for  '  moving  on.'  I  believe 
the  Swedenborgians  are  right  in*  this,  —  that  the  places 
above,  or  below,  are  filled  from  the  human  race,  or  races ; 
and  that  the  Lord  Himself  couldn't  do  much  with  beings 
made  as  He  has  made  us,  without  places  to  move  us  into. 
New  beginnings,  —  evenings  and  mornings  ;  the  very 
planet  cannot  go  on  its  way  without  making  them  for  it 
self.  Life  bound  down  to  poor  conditions,  —  and  all 
conditions  are  poor  in  the  sense  of  being  limited  while 
the  life  is  resistlessly  expanding,  —  festers .;  fevers ;  breaks 
out  in  violence  and  disease.  I  believe  we  want  new  places 
more  than  anything.  I  came  up  here  on  purpose  to  see 
if  I  could  not  begin  one." 

"  How  happened  you  to  come  just  here  ?  "  questioned 
Desire.  "  What  could  you  know  of  this,  beforehand?  " 

"  My  sister  had  Miss  Argenter's  letter  ;  and  at  once 
she  remembered  the  name  of  the  place  and  its  story. 


250  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

That  is  the  way  things  come  together,  you  know.  My 
brother-in-laAV,  Mr.  Sherrett,  owns,  or  did  own,  this 
whole  property.  A  '  dead  stick,'  he  thought  it.  Well, 
Aaron's  rod  was  another  dead  stick.  But  he  laid  it  up 
before  the  Lord,  and  it  blossomed." 

Desire  sat  silent,  looking  at  the  white  water  in  its 
gracious  hurry.  Pouring  itself  away,  unused,  —  un 
heeded  ;  yet  waiting  there,  pouring  always.  The  tireless 
impulse  of  the  divine  help  ;  vehement ;  eager,  with  a  hu 
man  eagerness  ;  yet  so  patient,  till  men's  hands  should 
reach  out  and  lay  hold  of*it ! 

She  dreamed  out  a  whole  dream  of  life  that  might 
grow  up  beside  this  help  ;  of  work  that  might  be  done 
there.  She  forgot  that  she  was  lingering,  and  keeping 
Mr.  Kirkbright  lingering,  behind  the  others. 

"  You  would  have  to  live  here  yourself,  I  should  think," 
she  said  at  length,  speaking  out  of  her  vision  of  the  things 
that  might  be,  and  so  —  would  have  to  be.  She  bad  got 
drawn  in  to  the  contemplation  of  the  scheme,  and  had 
begun  to  weigh  and  arrange,  involuntarily,  its  details ; 
forgetting  that  she  "  knew  not  anything." 

Mr.  Kirkbright  smiled. 

"  Yes,  I  see  where  you  are,"  he  said,  "  I  had  arrived 
at  precisely  the  same  point  myself.  But  the  '  right  peo 
ple  at  the  other  end  ?  '  Who  should  they  be  ?  Who 
shall  send  me  my  villagers,  —  my  workers  ?  Who  shall 
discriminate  for  me,  and  keep  things  true  and  unconf used 
at  the  source  ?  " 

"  Your  sister,  Mr.  Vireo,  Luclarion  Grapp,"  Desire  re 
peated,  promptly. 

"  And  yourself  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  and  Hazel,  all  we  can.  We  help  them. 
And  now  there  will  be  Miss  Argenter.  As  Hazel  said,  — 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS.  251 

*  We  all  of  us  know  the  Muffin-man.'  How  queer  that 
that  ridiculous  play  should  come  to  mean  so  much  with 
us  !  Luclarion  Grapp  is  actually  a  muffin-woman, 
you  know  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  the  Muffin-maw  literally,  ex 
cept  what  I  can  guess  of  him  by  your  application,"  said 
Mr.  Kirkbright,  laughing.  "  I've  no  doubt  I  ought  to, 
and  that  it  would  do  me  good." 

"You  will  have  to  come  to  Greenley  Street,  and  find 
him  out.  Hazel  and  Miss  Craydocke  manage  all  the  in 
troductions,  as  having  a  kind  of  proprietorship  ;  '  and 
quite  proper,  I'm  sure  '  •  -  Why,  where  are  Miss  Kirk- 
bright  and  Miss  Argenter  ?  " 

Coming  back  to  light  common  speech,  she  came  back 
also  to  the  present  circumstance  ;  reminded  also,  per 
haps,  by  her  "  quite  proper  "  quotation. 

"  If  I  may  come  to  Greenley  Street,  I  may  learn  a  good 
deal  beside  the  Muffin-man,"  said  Mr.  Kirkbright,  giving 
her  his  hand  to  help  her  up  a  steep,  slippery  place. 

Desire  foolishly  blushed.  She  knew  it,  and  knew  that 
her  hat  did  not  defend  her  in  the  least.  She  could  not 
take  it  back  now  ;  she  had  invited  him.  But  what  would 
he  think  of  her  blushing  about  it  ? 

"  You  can  learn  what  we  all  learn.  I  am  only  a 
scholar,"  she  said,  shortly.  And  then  she  stood  accused 
'before  her  own  truthfulness  of  having  covered  up  her 
blush  by  a  disclaimer  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
She  was  conscious  that  she  had  colored  like  any  silly  girl, 
at  she  hardly  knew  what.  She  was  provoked  with  her 
self,  for  letting  the  shadow  of  such  things  touch  her. 
She  hurried  on,  up  the  rough  bank,  before  Mr.  Kirk 
bright.  When  she  reached  the  top,  she  turned  round 
and  faced  him ;  this  time  with  a  determinedly  cool  cheek. 


252  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  said  that.  I  did  not  suppose 
you  thought  you  could  learn  anything  of  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  was  confused  to  think  I  had  asked  you  in  that  off 
hand  way  to  my  house.  I  have  not  been  very  long  used 
to  being  the  head  of  a  house." 

She  smiled  one  of  those  bits  of  smiles  of  hers ;  a  mere 
relaxation  of  the  lips  that  showed  the  white  tips  of  her 
front  teeth  and  just  indicated  the  peculiar,  pretty  curve 
with  which  the  others  were  set  behind  them ;  feeling  re 
assured  and  reinstated  in  her  own  self-respect  by  her  ex 
planation.  Then,  without  letting  him  answer,  she  turned 
swiftly  round  again,  and  sprang  up  the  rugged  stairway 
of  the  shelving  rock. 

But  she  had  not  uninvited  him,  after  all. 

They  found  Miss  Kirkb right  and  Sylvie  waiting  for 
them  at  the  red  house.  It  was  a  quaint  structure,  with  a 
kind  of  old,  foreign  look  about  it.  It  made  you  think 
either  of  an  ancient  family  mansion  in  some  provincial 
French  town,  or  of  a  convent  for  nuns. 

It  was  of  dark  red  brick,  —  the  quality  of  which  Mr. 
Kirkbright  remarked  with  satisfaction,  —  with  high  walls 
at  the  gable  ends  carried  above  the  slope  of  the  roof. 
These  were  met  and  overclasped  at  the  corners  by  wide, 
massive  eaves.  A  high,  narrow  door  with  a  fan-light 
occupied  the  middle  of  the  end  before  which  the  party 
stood.  Windows  above,  with  little  balconies,  were  hung 
with  old  red  woolen  damask,  fading  out  in  stripes  ;  perish 
ing,  doubtless,  with  moth  and  decay  ;  in  one  was  sus 
pended  a  rusty  bird-cage  which  had  once  been  gilt. 

What  an  honest  neighborhood  this  was,  in  which  these 
things  had  remained  for  years,  and  not  even  the  panes  of 
the  windows  had  been  broken  by  little  boys  !  But  then 
the  villages  full  of  little  boys  were  miles  away,  and  the 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS.  253 

single  families  at  the  nearer  farms  were  well  ordered  Pu 
ritan  folk,  fathered  and  mothered  in  careful,  old  fashioned 
sort.  There  was  some  indefinite  awe,  also,  of  the  lonely 
place,  and  of  the  rich,  far-off  owner  who  might  come  any 
day  to  look  after  his  rights,  and  make  a  reckoning  with 
them. 

Up,  from  platform  to  platform  of  the  terraced  rock,  as 
Sylvie  had  said,  climbed  the  successive  sections  of  the 
dwelling.  The  front  was  two  and  a  half  stories  high  ; 
the  last  outlying  projection  was  a  single  square  apart 
ment  with  its  own  low  roof  ;  towards  the  back,  within, 
you  went  up  flight  after  flight  of  short  stairs  from  room 
to  room,  from  passage  to  passage.  Once  or  twice,  the 
few  broad  steps  between  two  apartments  ran  the  whole 
width  of  the  same. 

"  What  a  place  for  plays  !  " 

"  Or  for  a  little  children's  school,  ranged  in  rows,  one 
above  another." 

"  The  man  who  built  it  must  have  dreamt  it  first !  " 

These  were  the  exclamations  that  they  made  to  each 
other  as  they  passed  through,  exploring. 

There  was  a  great  number  of  bedrooms,  divided  off 
here  and  there ;  the  upper  front  was  one  row  of  them 
with  a  gallery  running  across  the  house,  in  whose  win 
dows  toward  the  south  hung  the  old  red  woolen  draperies 
and  the  bird-cage. 

Below,  at  the  back,  the  last  room  opened  by  a  door 
upon  a  high,  flat  table  of  the  rock,  around  whose  over 
hanging  edge  a  light  railing  had  been  run.  Standing 
here,  they  looked  up  arid  down  the  beautiful  gorge,  into 
the  heart  of  the  hill  and  the  depth  of  its  secret  shaded 
places  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  into  the  rush 
and  whirl  of  the  rapidly  descending  and  broken  torrent 


254  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

to  where  it  flung  itself  off  the  sudden  brink,  and  changed 
into  white  mist  and  an  everlasting  song. 

"  This  last  room  ought  to  be  a  chapel,"  said  Mr.  Kirk- 
bright.  "  Out  here  could  be  open-air  service  in  the  beau 
tiful  weather,  to  the  sound  of  that  continual  organ." 

"  You  have  thought  of  it,  too,"  exclaimed  Desire. 

"  Of  what  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Kirkbright,  turning  toward 
her. 

"  Of  what  you  might  make  this  place." 

"  What  would  you  make  of  it  ?  " 

They  were  a  little  apart,  by  themselves,  again.  It  kept 
happening  so.  Miss  Kirkbrighfc  and  Sylvie  had  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  each  other. 

"  I  would  make  it  a  moral  sanatorium.  I  would  take 
people  in  here,  and  nurse  them  up  by  beautiful  living,  till 
they  were  ready  to  begin  the  world  again ;  and  then  I 
would  have  the  little  new  world,  of  work  and  business, 
waiting  just  outside.  I  would  have  rooms  for  them  here, 
that  they  should  feel  the  own-ness  of  ;  flowers  to  tend  ; 
ferneries  in  the  windows ;  they  could  make  them  from 
these  beautiful  Avoods,  and  send  them  away  to  the  cities ; 
that  would  be  a  business  at  the  very  first !  I  would 
have  all  the  lovely,  natural  ways  of  living  to  win  them 
back  by,  —  to  teach  them  pure  things ;  yes,  —  and  I 
would  have  the  chapel  to  teach  them  the  real  gospel  in  ! 
That  bird-cage  in  the  gallery  window  made  me  think  of 
it  all,  I  believe,"  she  ended,  bringing  herself  back  out 
of  her  enthusiasm  with  a  recollection. 

"  I  knew  you  could  tell  me  how,"  said  Mr.  Kirkbright, 
quietly. 

"  How  Hazel  would  rejoice  in  this  place !  It  is  a  place 
to  set  any  one  dreaming,  I  think  ;  because,  perhaps,  as 
Miss  Kirkbright  said,  the  man  was  in  a  dream  when  he 
planned  it." 


BRICKFIELD   FARMS.  20D 

"  I  mean  to  try  if  one  dream  cannot  be  lived,"  said 
Christopher  Kirkbright.  "  At  any  rate,  let  us  have  the 
vision  out,  while  we  are  about  it !  What  do  you  think  of 
brickmaking  for  the  hard,  rough  working  men,  with  fam 
ilies,  with  those  cottages  and  more  like  them  to  live  in ; 
and  paper-making,  in  mills  down  there,  for  others  ;  .for 
the  women  and  children,  especially.  Paper  for  hangings, 
say  ;  then,  some  time  or  other,  the  printing  works,  and 
the  designing  ?  Might  it  not  all  grow  ?  And  then 
wouldn't  we  have  a  ladder  all  the  way  up,  for  them  to 
climb  by,  —  out  of  the  clay  and  common  toil  to  art  and 
beauty?" 

"  You  can  dream  delightfully,  Mr.  Kirkbright." 

u  I  will  see  if  I  cannot  begin  to  turn  it  into  fact,  and 
make  it  pay,"  he  answered.  "  Pay  itself,  and  keep  itself 
going.  I  do  not  need  to  look  for  my  fortune  from  it. 
The  fortune  is  to  be  put  into  it.  But  I  have  no  right  to 
lose,  —  to  throw  away, —  the  fortune.  It  must  come  by 
degrees,  like  all  things.  You  know  some  people  say  that 
God  dreamed  the  heavens  and  the  earth  in  those  six  won 
derful  days,  and  then  took  his  millions  of  years  for  the 
everlasting  making,  with  the  Sabbath  of  his  divine  satis 
faction  between  the  two.  If  I  cannot  do  the  whole, 
there  may  be  others,  —  and  if  there  are,  we  shall  find 
them,  —  who  would  help  to  build  the  city." 

"  I  know  who,"  said  Desire,  instantly.  "  Dakie 
Thayne,  and  Ruth  !  It  is  just  what  they  want." 

"  .Will  4  Dakie  Thayne  '  build  a  railroad,  —  seven 
miles,  —  across  to  Tillington,  —  for  our  transportation  ? 
We'll  say  he  will.  I  have  no  question  it  is  Dakie  Thayne, 
or  somebody,  who  is  waiting,  and  that  the  right  people  are 
all  linked  together,  ready  to  draw  each  other  in,"  said 
Mr.  Kirkbright,  giving  rein  to  the  very  lightness  of  glad- 


256  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

ness  in  the  joy  of  the  thought  he  was  pursuing.  "  We 
don't  know  how  we  stand  leashed  and  looped,  all  over 
the  world,  until  the  Lord  begins  to  take  us  in  hand,  and 
bring  us  together  toward  his  grand  intents.  We  shall 
want  another  Hilary  Vireo  to  preach  that  gospel  here  ; 
and  I  don't  doubt  he  is  somewhere,  though  it  would 
hardly  seem  possible." 

"Why  don't  we  preach  it  ourselves?"  said  Desire, 
with  inimitable  unwittingness.  She  was  so  utterly  and 
wholly  in  the  vision,  that  she  left  her  present  self  stand 
ing  there  on  the  rock  with  Christopher  Kirkbright,  and 
never  even  thought  of  a  reason  why  to  blush  before  him. 

"  I  don't  know  why  we  shouldn't.  In  fact,  we  could 
not  help  it.  It  would  be  all  gospel,  wouldn't  it  ?  I 
knoAV,  at  least,  what  I  should  mean  the  whole  thing  to 
preach." 

Saying  this,  he  fell  silent  all  at  once. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  wrong  gospel  preached  in  the 
world.  If  we  could  only  stop  that,  and  begin  again,  — 
I  think  !  "  said  Desire.  "  Between  the  old,  hopeless  ter 
rors  and  the  modern  smoothing  away  and  letting  go,  the 
real  living  help  seems  to  have  failed  men.  They  don't 
know  where  it  is,  or  whether  they  need  it,  even." 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,"  said  Christopher  Kirkbright,  letting 
his  silence  be  broken  through  with  the  whole  tide  of  his 
earnest,  life-long,  pondered  thought.  "  Men  have  put 
aside  the  old  idea  of  the  avenging  and  punishing  God, 
until  they  think  they  have  no  longer  any  need  of  Christ. 
God  is  Love,  they  tell  us  ;  not  recognizing  that  the  Christ 
is  that  very  Love  of  God.  He  will  not  cast  us  into  hell, 
they  say  ;  there  is  no  pit  of  burning  torment.  But  they 
know  there  is  something  that  follows  after  sin;  they 
know  that  God  is  not  weak,  but  abides  by  his  own  truth. 


BRICKFIELD    FARMS.  257 

Therefore,  when  they  have  made  out  God  to  be  Love, 
and  blotted  away  the  old,  literal  hell,  they  turn  back  and 
declare  pitilessly,  — '  There  is  Laiv.  Law  punishes  ;  and 
Law  is  inexorable.  God  Himself  does  not  suspend  or 
contradict  his  Law.  You  have  sinned;  you  must  take 
the  consequences.'  Are  you  better  off  in  the  clutch  of 
that  Law,  than  you  were  in  the  old  hell  ?  Isn't  there  the 
same  need  as  ever  crying  up  from  hearts  of  suffering 
men  for  a  Saviour  ?  Of  a  side  of  God  to  be  shown  to 
them,  —  the  forgiving  side,  the  restoring  right  hand? 
The  power  to  grasp  and  curb  his  own  law  ?  You  must 
have  Jesus  again  !  You  must  have  the  Christ  of  God  to 
help  you  against  the  Law  of  God  that  you  have  put  in 
the  place  of  the  hell  you  will  not  believe  in.  Without  a 
counteracting  force,  law  will  run  on  forever.  The  im 
petus  that  sin  started  will  bear  on  downward,  through 
the  eternities !  This  is  what  threatens  the  sinner  ;  and 
you  have  sinned.  Beyond  and  above  and  through  the 
necessities  that  He  seems  to  have  made,  God  reveals  him 
self  supreme  in  love,  in  the  Face  of  Jesus  Christ.  He 
comes  in  the  very  midst  of  the  clouds,  with  power  and 
great  glory !  c  I  have  provided  a  way,'  He  says,  '  from 
the  foundations,  —  for  you  to  repent  and  for  Me  to  take 
you  back.  It  was  a  part  of  my  plan  to  forgive.  You 
have  seen  but  half  the  revolution  of  my  wheel  of  Law. 
Fling  yourself  upon  it ;  believe  ;  you  shall  be  broken ; 
but  you  shall  not  be  ground  into  powder.  You  shall  find 
yourselves  lifted  up  into  the  eternal  peace  and  safety  ; 
you  shall  feel  yourself  folded  in  the  arms  of  my  tender 
compassion.  The  bones  that  I  have  broken  shall  rejoice. 
Your  life  shall  be  set  right  for  you,  notwithstanding  the 
Law;  yea,  by  the  law.  I  have  provided.  Only  believe.' 
"  This  is  the  word,  —  the  Christ,  —  on  God's  part. 
IT 


258  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

This  is  repentance  and  saving  faith,  on  our  part.  It  is 
the  Gospel.  And  it  came  by  the  mouth,  and  the  inter 
preting  and  confirming  acts,  of  Jesus.  The  power  of  the 
acts  was  little  matter ;  the  expression  of  the  acts  was 
everything.  He  proclaimed  forgiveness,  —  He  healed 
disease  ;  He  reversed  evil  and  turned  it  back.  He  changed 
death  into  life,  —  taking  away  the  sting  —  the  implan 
tation  —  of  it,  which  is  sin.  For  evermore  the  might  of 
the  Redemption  stands  above  the  might  of  the  Law  that 
was  transgressed." 

"  You  have  dedicated  your  chapel,  Mr.  Kirkbright." 
Desire  Ledwith  said  it,  with  that  emotion  which  makes 
the  voice  sound  restrained  and  deep  ;  and  as  she  said  it, 
she  turned  to  go  back  into  the  house. 


BLOSSOMING   FERNS.  259 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

BLOSSOMING  FERNS. 

minister's  covered  carryall   was   borrowed  from 
two  miles  off,  to  take  Mrs.  Argenter  down  to  Tilling- 
ton. 

All  she  knew  about  the  winter  plan  was  that  Miss 
Ledwith  was  a  friend  of  Miss  Kirkbright's,  had  a  large, 
old-fashioned  house,  and  scarcely  any  household,  and 
would  be  glad  to  have  herself  and  Sylvie  take  rooms  with 
her  for  several  months.  She  had  a  vague  idea  that  Miss 
Ledwith  might  be  somewhat  restricted  in  her  means,  and 
that  to  receive  lodgers  in  a  friendly  way  would  be  an 
"  object "  to  her.  She  talked,  indeed,  with  a  gentle 
complaisance  to  Miss' "Kirkbright,  about  its  not  being 
exactly  what  they  had  intended,  —  they  had  thought  of 
rooms  at  Hotel  Pelham  or  Boylston,  so  central  and  so 
near  the  Libraries ;  but  after  all,  what  she  needed  most 
was  quiet  and  no  stairs  ;  and  she  had  a  horror  of  eleva 
tors,  and  a  dread  of  fire  ;  so  that  this  was  really  better, 
perhaps  ;  and  Miss  Ledwith  was  a  very  sweet  person. 

Miss  Euphrasia  smiled;  "  sweet,"  especially  in  the 
silvery  tone  in  which  Mrs.  Argenter  uttered  it,  was  the 
last  monosyllabic  epithet  she  would  have  selected  as 
applying  to  grave,  earnest,  downright  Desire. 

At  East  Keaton,  the  train  stopped  for  five  minutes. 

Sylvie  had  begged  Mr.  Kirkbright  beforehand  to  get 
her  mother's  foot-warmer  filled  with  hot  water  at  the 
station,  and  he  had  just  returned  with  it.  She  was  busily 
arranging  it  under  Mrs.  Argenter's  feet  again,  and  wrap- 


260  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

ping  the  rug  about  her,  kneeling  beside  her  chair  to  do 
so,  when  some  one  entered  the  drawing-room  car  in  which 
the  party  was,  and  came  up  behind  her. 

She  thought  she  was  in  the  way  of  some  stranger,  and 
hastily  arose. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  instinctively,  and 
turned  as  she  spoke. 

"  What  for  ?  "  asked  Rodney  Sherrett,  holding  out 
both  "hands,  and  grasping  hers  before  she  was  well  aware. 

There  were  morning  stars  in  her  eyes,  and  a  beautiful 
sunrise  crimsoned  her  cheek.  These  two  had  not  seen 
each  other  all  summer. 

Aunt  Euphrasia  looked  from  one  face  to  the  other. 

"  Not  to  say  anything  for  two  years !  "  she  thought, 
recalling  inwardly  her  brother's  wise  injunction.  "  It 
says  itself,  though  ;  and  it  was  made  to  !  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Argenter  ?  I  hope  you  are 
feeling  better  for  your  country  summer  ?  Aunt  Effie  ! 
You're  not  surprised  to  see  me  ?  Did  you  think  I  would 
let  you  go  down  without  ?  " 

No ;  Aunt  Effie,  when  she  had  written  him  that  regu 
lar  little  Sunday  afternoon  note  from  Brickfield,  telling 
him  that  they  were  all  to  come  down  on  Tuesday,  had 
thought  no  such  thing.  And  she  was  at  this  moment, 
with  wise  forethought,  packed  in  behind  all  the  others,  in 
the  most  inaccessible  corner  of  the  car. 

"  You're  not  going  down  to  the  city  ?  " 

But  he  was.     Rodney's  eyes  sparkled  as  he  told  her. 

"  Your  own  doctrine  exemplified.  Things  always  hap 
pen,  you  say.  One  of  the  mills  is  stopped  for  just  this 
very  day  of  all  others,  —  repairing  machinery.  I'm  off 
work,  for  the  first  time  in  four  months.  There  has  been 
no  low  water  all  summer'.  Regular  header,  straight 


BLOSSOMING    FERNS.  261 

through.  Don't  you  see  I'm  perfectly  emaciated  with  the 
confinement  ?  I've  breathed  in  wool-stuffing  till  I  feel 
like  a  pincushion." 

"  An  emaciated  wool-stuffed  pincushion  !  Yes,  I  think 
you  do  look  a  little  like  it !  "  Aunt  Euphrasia  talked  non 
sense  just  as  he  did,  because  she  was  so  pleased  she  could 
not  help  it. 

They  paired,  naturally.  Miss  Kirkbright  and  Mrs. 
Argenter,  facing  each  other  in  the  corner,  were  eating 
tongue  sandwiches  out  of  the  same  basket ;  and  Sylvie 
had  poured  out  for  her  mother  the  sugared  claret  and  water 
with  which  her  little  travelling  flask  had  been  filled. 
Mr.  Kirkbright  had  monopolized  Desire,  sitting  upon  the 
opposite  side  of  the  car,  with  another  long  talk,  about 
brick  and  tile  making,  and  the  compatibility  of  a  paper 
manufactory  and  a  House  of  Refuge. 

"  I  will  not  have  it  called  that,  though.  It  shall  not 
be  stamped  with  any  stereotyped  name.  It  shall  not  even 
be  a  Home,  —  except  my  home;  and  I'll  just  take  them 
in :  I  and  Euphrasia." 

There  was  nothing  for  Rodney  to  do,  but  to  sit  down 
beside  Sylvie,  with  three  hours  before  him,  which  he  had 
earned  by  four  months  among  the  wheels  and  cranks  and 
wool-fluff. 

Of  all  these  four  months  there  has  been  no  chance  to 
tell  you  anything  before  as  concerning  him. 

He  had  been  at  Arlesbury  ;  learning  to  be  a  manufac 
turer  ;  beginning  at  the  beginning  with  the  belts  and 
rollers,  spindles,  shuttles,  and  harnesses  ;  finding  out  the 
secrets  of  satinets  and  doeskins  and  kerseys  ;  driving,  as 
he  had  wanted  to  do  ;  taking  hold  of  something  and 
making  it  go. 

"  It  is'nt  exactly  like  trotting  tandem,"  he  told  Sylvie  ; 


262  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  but  there's  a  something  living  in  it,  too ;  a  creature  to 
bit  and  manage  ;  that's  what  I  like  about  it.  But  I  hate 
the  oil,  and  the  noise,  and  the  dust.  Why,  this  is  pin- 
drop  silence  to  it !  I  hope  it  won't  make  me  deaf,  —  and 
dumb  !  Father  will  feel  bad  if  it  does,"  he  said,  with  an 
indescribably  pathetic  demureness. 

"  Was  it  your  father's  plan  ?  "  asked  Sylvie,  laughing 
merrily. 

"  Well,  —  yes  !  At  least  I  told  him  to  take  me  and 
set  me  to  work  ;  or  I  should  pretty  soon  be  good  for 
nothing ;  and  so  he  looked  round  in.  a  great  fright  and 
hurry,  as  you  may  imagine,  and  put  me  into  the  first 
thing  he  could  think  of,  and  that  was  this.  I'm  to  stay 
at  it  for  two  years,  before  I  —  ask  him  for  anything  else. 
I  think  I  shall  have  a  good  right  then,  don't  you  ?  I'm 
thinking  all  the  time  about  my  Three  Wishes.  I  suppose 
I  may  wish  three  times  when  I  begin  ?  They  always 
do." 

What  could  he  talk  but  nonsense  ?  Earnestness  had 
been  forbidden  him ;  he  had  to  cover  it  up  with  the 
absurdity  of  a  boy. 

But  what  a  blessing  that  it  made  no  manner  of  differ 
ence  !  That  in  all  things  of  light  and  speech,  the  gra 
cious  law  is  that  the  flash  should  go  so  much  farther,  as 
well  as  faster  than  the  sound  ! 

Something  between  them  unspoken  told  the  story  that 
words,  though  they  be  waited  for,  never  tell  half  so  well. 
She  knew  that  she  had  to  do  with  his  being  in  earnest. 
She  knew  that  she  had  to  do  with  his  being  at  play,  this 
moment,  laughing  and  joking  the  time  away  beside  her 
on  this  railroad  trip.  He  had  come  to  join  Aunt  Euphra- 
sia  ?  Yes,  indeed,  and  there  sat  Aunt  Euphrasia  in  her 
corner,  reading  the  "  Vicar's  Daughter,"  and  between 


BLOSSOMING   FERNS.  263 

times  talking  a  little  with  Mrs.  Argenter.  Not  ten  sen 
tences  did  aunt  and  nephew  exchange,  all  the  way  from 
East  Keaton  down  to  Cambridge.  When  Mrs.  Argenter 
grew  tired  as  the  day  wore  on,  and  a  sofa  was  vacated, 
Rodney  helped  Sylvie  to  move  the  shawls  and  the  foot- 
warmer,  and  the  rug,  and  improvise  cushions,  and  make 
her  mother  comfortable ;  then,  as  Mrs.  Argenter  fell  asleep, 
they  sat  near  her  and  chatted  on. 

And  Aunt  Euphrasia  read  her  book,  and  considered 
herself  escorted  and  attended  to,  which  is  just  such  a  con 
venience  as  a  judicious  and  amiably  disposed  female  Rela 
tive  appreciates  the  opportunity  for  making  of  herself. 

Down  somewhere  in  Middlesex,  boys  began  to  come 
into  the  cars  with  great  bunches  of  trailing  ferns  to  sell ; 
exquisite  things  that  people  have  just  begun  to  find  out 
and  clamor  for,  and  that  so  a  boy -supply  has  vigorously 
arisen  to  meet. 

"  O,  how  lovely  !  "  cried  Sylvie,  at  one  stopping-place, 
where  an  urchin  stood  with  his  arms  full ;  the  glossy,  del 
icate  leaves  wreathed  round  and  round  in  long  loops,  and 
the  feathery  blossoms  dropping  like  mist-tips  from  among 
them.  "  And  we're  too  exclusive  here,  for  him  to  be  let 
in." 

Of  course  the  window  would  not  open  ;  drawing-room 
car  windows  never  do.  Rodney  rushed  to  the  door  ;  held 
up  a  dollar  greenback. 

"  Boy  !  Here  !  toss  up  your  load  ! ' 
The  long  train  gave  its  first  spasm  and  creak  at  start 
ing  ;  up  came  the  tangle  of  beauty ;  down  fluttered  the 
bit  of  paper  to  the  platform ;  and  Rodney  came  in  with 
the  rare  garlands  and  tassels  drooping  all  about  him. 

Everybody  was  delighted  ;  Aunt  Euphrasia  dropped 
her  book,  and  made  her  way  out  of  her  corner ;  Desire 


264  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

and  Mr.  Kirkbright  handled  and  exclaimed  ;  Mrs.  Argen- 
ter  opened  her  eyes,  and  held  out  her  fingers  toward  them 
with  a  smile. 

"  Such  a  quantity  —  for  everybody  !  "  said  Sylvie,  as 
he  put  them  into  her  lap,  and  she  began  to  shake  out  the 
bunches.  "  How  kind  you  were,  Mr.  Sherrett !  We've 
longed  so  to  find  some  of  these,  haven't  we  Amata  ?  Has 
anybody  got  a  newspaper,  or  two  ?  We'd  better  keep 
them  all  together  till  we  get  home."  And  she  coiled  the 
sprays  carefully  round  and  round  into  a  heap. 

No  matter  if  they  should  be  all  given  away  to  the  very 
last  leaf  ;  she  could  thank  innocently  "  for  everybody  " ; 
but  she  knew  very  well  what  the  last  leaf,  falling  to  her 
to  keep,  would  stand  for. 

In  years  and  years  to  come,  Sylvie  will  never  see  climb 
ing  ferns  again,  without  a  feeling  as  of  all  the  delicate 
beauty  and  significance  of  the  world  gathered  together  in 
a  heap  and  laid  into  her  lap. 

She  had  seen  the  dollar  that  Rodney  paid  for  them, 
flutter  down  beside  the  window  as  the  car  moved  on,  and 
the  boy  spring  forward  to  catch  it.  Rodney  Sherrett 
earned  his  dollars  now.  It  was  one  of  his  very,  very  own 
that  he  spent  for  her  that  day.  A  girl  feels  a  strange 
thrill  when  she  sees  for  the  first  time,  a  fragment  of  the 
life  she  cares  for  given,  representatively,  thus,  for  her. 

It  is  useless  to  analyze  and  explain.  Sylvie  did  not  stop 
to  do  it,  neither  did  Rodney  ;  but  that  ride,  that  little  giv 
ing  and  taking,  were  full  of  parable  and  heart-telegraphy 
between  them.  That  October  afternoon  was  a  long,  beau 
tiful  dream ;  a  dream  that  must  come  true,  some  time. 
Yet  Rodney  said  to  his  aunt,  as  he  bade  her  good-by 
that  evening,  at  her  own  door  (he  had  to  go  back  to  the 
station  to  take  the  night  train  up),  —  "Why  shouldn't 


BLOSSOMING   FERNS.  265 

we  have  this  piece  of  our  lives  as  well  as  the  rest,  Auntie  ? 
Why  should  two  years  be  cribbed  off  ?  There  won't  be 
any  too  much  of  it,  and  there  won't  be  any  of  it  just  like 
this." 

Aunt  Euphrasia  only  stooped  down  from  the  doorstep, 
and  kissed  him  on  his  cheek,  saying  nothing. 

But  to  herself  she  said,  after  he  had  gone,  — 

"  I  don't  see  why,  either.  They  would  be  so  happy, 
waiting  it  out  together.  And  there  never  is  any  time 
like  this  time.  How  is  anybody  sure  of  the  rest  of  it  ?  ' 

Aunt  Euphrasia  knew.  She  had  not  been  sure  of  the 
rest  of  hers. 


THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

"  WANTED." 

THE  half  of  course  and  half  critical  way  in  which 
Mrs.  Argenter  took  possession  of  the  gray  parlor, 
would  have  been  funny,  if  it  had  not  been  painful,  to 
Sylvie,  feeling  almost  wrong  and  wickedly  deceitful  in 
betraying  her  mother,  through  ignorance  of  the  real 
arrangements,  into  a  false  and  unsuitable  attitude ;  and 
to  Desire,  for  Sylvie's  sake. 

She  thought  it  would  do  nicely  if  the  windows  weren't 
too  low,  and  if  the  little  stove-grate  could  be  replaced  by 
an  open  wood  fire.  Couldn't  she  have  a  Franklin,  or 
couldn't  the  fire-place  be  unbricked  ? 

"  I  don't  think  you'll  mind,  with  cannel  coal,"  said 
Sylvie.  "  That  is  so  cheerful ;  and  there  won't  be  any 
smoke,  for  Miss  Ledwith  says  the  draught  is  excellent." 

"  But  it  stands  out,  and  takes  up  room ;  and  people 
never  keep  the  carpet  clean  behind  it !  "  said  Mrs.  Ar 
genter. 

"  I'll  take  care  of  that,"  said  Sylvie.  "  It  is  my  busi 
ness.  We  couldn't  have  these  rooms,  you  see,  except  just 
as  I  have  agreed  for  them ;  and  you  know  I  like  making- 
things  nice  myself  in  the  morning." 

Desire  had  delicately  withdrawn  by  this  time ;  and 
presently  coming  back  with  a  cup  of  tea  upon  a  little 
tray,  which  refreshment  she  was  sure  Mrs.  Argenter 
would  need  at  once  after  her  journey,  she  found  the  lady 
sitting  quite  serenely  in  the  low  cushioned  chair  before 
the  obnoxious  grate,  in  which  Sylvie  had  kindled  the 


ik  WAiNTED."  267 

lump  of  cannel  that  lay  all  ready  for  the  match,  in  a 
folded  newspaper,  with  three  little  pitch-pine  sticks. 

There  was  something  so  dainty  and  compact  about  it, 
and  the  bright  blaze  answered  so  speedily  to  the  com 
municating  touch,  the  black  layers  falling  away  from 
each  other  in  rich,  bituminous  flakiness,  and  letting  the 
fire-tongues  through,  that  she  looked  on  in  the  happy 
complacence  with  which  idle  or  disabled  persons  always 
enjoy  something  that  does  itself,  yet  can  be  followed  in 
the  doing  with  a  certain  passive  sense  of  participancy. 

In  the  same  manner  she  watched  Sylvie  putting  away 
wraps,  unlocking  trunks,  laying  forth  dressing-gowns  and 
night-clothes,  and  setting  out  toilet  cases  upon  table  and 
stand. 

For  the  gray  parlor  contained  now,  for  Mrs.  Argen- 
ter's  use,  a  pretty,  low,  curtained  French  bed,  and  the 
other  appliances  of  a  sleeping-room.  A  bedroom  adjoin 
ing,  which  had  been  Mrs.  Froke's,  was  to  be  Sylvie's  ; 
and  this  had  a  further  communication  directly  with  the 
kitchen,  which  would  be  just  the  thing  for  Sylvie's  quiet 
Sittings  to  and  fro  in  the  fulfillment  of  her  gladly  under 
taken  duties.  All  Mrs.  Argenter  knew  about  it  was  that 
she  should  be  able  to  have  her  hot  water  promptly  in  the 
mornings,  without  being  intruded  upon. 

Sylvie  had  insisted  upon  Desire's  receiving  the  seven 
dollars  a  week  which  she  was  still  able  to  pay  for  her 
mother's  board.  Nobody  had  told  her  of  Miss  Ledwith's 
very  large  wealth,  and  it  would  have  made  no  difference 
if  she  had  known  it,  except  the  exciting  in  her  of  a  quick 
question  why  they  had  been  taken  in  at  all,  and  whether 
she  were  not  indeed  being  in  her  turn  benevolently  prac 
tised  upon,  as  she  with  much  compunction  practised  upon 
her  mother. 


268  THE    OTHKK    GIRLS. 

"  I  know  very  well  that  I  could  not  earn,  beyond  my 
own  board,  more  than  the  difference  between  that  and 
the  ten  dollars  she  would  have  to  pay  anywhere  else," 
she  said,  simply.  And  Miss  Kirkbright  as  simply  told 
Desire,  privately,  to  let  it  be  so. 

"  If  you  don't  need  the  pay,  she  needs  the  payment," 
she  said. 

Desire  quietly  put  it  all  aside,  as  she  received  it. 
"  Sometime  or  other  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  her  all  about 
it,  and  make  her  take  it  back,"  she  said.  "  When  she 
has  come  to  understand,  she  will  know  that  it  is  no  more 
mine  than  hers  ;  and  if  I  do  not  keep  it  I  can  see  very 
well  it  will  all  go  after  the  rest,  for  whatever  whims  she 
can  possibly  gratify  her  mother  in." 

There  began  to  be  happy  times  for  Sylvie  now,  in 
Frendely's  kitchen,  in  Desire's  library  ;  all  'over  the 
house,  wherever  there  was  any  little  care  to  take,  any 
service  to  render.  Mrs.  Argenter  did  not  miss  her  ;  she 
read  a  great  deal,  and  slept  a  great  deal,  and  Sylvie  was 
rarely  gone  long  at  a  time.  She  was  always  ready  at 
twilight  to  play  backgammon,  or  a  game  of  what  she 
called  "  skin-deep  chess,"  for  her  mother  was  not  able  to 
bear  the  exertion  or  excitement  of  chess  in  real,  deep 
earnest.  Sylvie  brought  her  sewing,  also,  —  work  for 
Neighbor  Street  it  was,  mostly,  —  into  the  gray  parlor, 
and  "  sewed  for  two,"  on  the  principle  of  the  fire-watch 
ing,  that  something  busy  might  be  going  on  in  the  room, 
and  Mrs.  Argenter  might  have  the  content  of  seeing  it. 

On  the  Wednesday  evenings  recurred  the  delightful 
"  Read-and-Talk,"  when  the  Ingrahams  came,  and  Bel 
Bree,  and  a  dozen  or  so  more  of  the  "  other  girls  "  ;  when 
on  the  big  table  treasures  of  picture,  map,  stereoscope, 
and  story  were  brought  forth  ;  when  they  traversed  far 


269 

countries,  studied  in  art-galleries  and  frescoed  churches, 
traced  back  old  historic  associations  ;  did  not  hurry  or 
rush,  but  stayed  in  place  after  place,  at  point  after  point, 
looking  it  all  thoroughly  up,  enjoying  it  like  people  who 
could  take  the  world  in  the  leisure  of  years.  And  as 
they  did  not  have  the  actual  miles  to  go  over,  the  standing 
about  to  do,  and  the  fatigues  to  sleep  between,  they  could 
"  work  in  the  ground  fast,"  like  Hamlet,  or  any  other 
spirit.  Their  hours  stood  for  months  ;  their  two  months 
had  given  them  already  winters  and  summers  of  enchant- 

O  «• 

ment. 

Hazel  Ripwinkley,  and  very  often  Ada  Geoffrey,  was 
here  at  these  travelling  parties.  Ada  had  all  her  mother's 
resources  of  books,  engravings,  models,  specimens,  at  her 
command ;  she  would  come  with  a  carriage-full.  Some 
times  the  library  was  Rome  for  an  evening,  with  its  Sis- 
tine  Raphaels,  its  curious  relics  and  ornaments,  its 
Coliseum  and  St.  Peter's  in  alabaster,  its  views  of  tombs, 
and  baths,  and  temples.  Sometimes  it  was  Venice ; 
again  it  was  transformed  into  a  dream  of  Switzerland ; 
and  again,  there  were  the  pyramids,  the  obelisks,  the 
sphinxes,  the  giant  walls  and  gateways  of  Egypt,  with  a 
Nile  boat,  and  lotus  flowers,  and  papyrus  reeds,  in  reality 
or  fac-simile.  —  even  a  mummied  finger  and  a  scarabo3us 
ring. 

They  were  not  restricted,  even,  to  a  regular  route, 
when  their  subject  took  them  out  of  it.  They  could  hav<> 
a  glimpse  of  Memphis,  or  Babylon,  or  Alexandria,  or 
Athens,  by  way  of  following  out  an  allusion  or  synchro 
nism. 

Hazel  and  Ada  almost  came  to  the -conclusion  that  this 
was  the  perfection  of  travelling,  and  the  supersedure  of 
all  literal  and  laborious  sight-seeing  ;  and  Sylvie  Argen- 


2TO  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

ter  ventured  the  Nipperism  that  "tea  and  coffee  and 
spices  might  or  might  not  be  a  little  different  right  off 
the  bush,  but  if  shiploads  were  coming  in  to  you  all  the 
time,  you  might  combine  things  with  as  much  comfort  on 
the  whole,  perhaps,  as  yon  would  have  in  sailing  round 
for  every  separate  pinch  to  Ceylon,  and  Java,  and  Can 
ton." 

The  leaf  had  got  turned  between  Leicester  Place  and 
Pilgrim  Street.  I  suppose  you  knew  it  would  as  well 
as  I. 

Bel  Bree  had  met  Dorothy  first  in  silk-and-button 
errands  for  her  Aunt  Blin's  "  finishings,"  at  the  thread- 
store  where  Dot  tended.  (Such  machine-sewing  as  they 
could  obtain,  Ray  had  done  at  home,  since  they  came 
into  the  city ;  and  Dot  had  taken  this  place  at  Brade  and 
Matchett's.)  Then  they  came  across  each  other  in  their 
waitings  at  the  Public  Library,  and  so  found  out  their 
near  neighborhood.  At  last,  growing  intimate,  Dorothy 
had  introduced  Bel  to  the  Chapel  Bible  class,  and  thence 
brought  her  into  Desire's  especial  little  club  at  her  own 
house. 

After  the  travel-talk  was  over,  —  and  they  began  with 
it  early,  so  that  all  might  reach  home  at  a  safe  hour  in 
the  evening,  —  very  often  some  one  or  two  would  linger 
a  few  moments  for  some  little  talk  of  confidence  or  advice 
with  Desire.  These  girls  brought  their  plans  to  her; 
their  disappointments,  their  difficulties,  their  suggestions ; 
not  one  would  make  a  change,  or  take  any  new  action, 
without  telling  her.  They  knew  she  cared  for  them.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  all  religion  that  she  taught  them  in 
this  faith,  this  friendliness.  Every  soul  wants  some  one 
to  come  to  ;  it  is  easy  to  pass  from  the  experience  of 
human  sympathy  to  the  thought  of  the  Divine ;  without 
it  the  Divine  has  never  been  revealed. 


271 

One  bright  night  in  this  October,  Dot  Ingraham  wait 
ed,  letting  her  sister  walk  on  with  Frank  Sunderline, 
who  had  called  for  them,  and  asking  Bel  Bree  to  stop  a 
minute  and  go  with  her.  "  We'll  take  the  car,  pres 
ently,-"  she  said  to  Ray.  "  We  shall  be  at  home  almost 
as  soon  as  you  will." 

"  It  is  about  the  shop  work,"  she  said  to  Desire,  who 
stepped  back  into  the  library  with  her. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  can  do  it  much  longer.  I  am  pretty 
strong  for  some  things,  but  this  terrible  standing!  I 
could  walk  all  day  ;  but  cramped  up  behind  those  coun 
ters,  and  then  reaching  up  and  down  the  boxes  and 
things,  —  I  feel  sometimes  when  I  get  through  at  night, 
as  if  my  bones  had  all  been  racked.  I  haven't  told  them 
at  home,  for  fear  they  would  worry  about  me;  they 
think  now  I've  lost  flesh,  and  I  suppose  I  have ;  and  I 
don't  have  much  appetite ;  it  seems  dragged  out  of  me. 
And  then,  —  I  can't  say  it  before  the  others,  for  they're 
in  shops,  some  of  'em,  and  places  may  be  different ;  but 
it's  such  a  window  and  counter  parade,  besides ;  and  they 
do  look  out  for  it.  People  stare  in  at  the  store  as  they 
go  by;  Margaret  Shoey  has  the  glove  counter  at  that 
end,  and  she  knows  Mr.  Matchett  keeps  her  there  on 
purpose  to  attract ;  she  sets  herself  up  and  takes  airs 
upon  it ;  and  Sarah  Cilley  does  everything  she  sees  her 
do,  and  comes  in  for  the  second-hand  attention.  Mr. 
Matchett  asked  me  the  other  day  if  I  couldn't  wear  a 
panier,  and  do  up  my  hair  a  little  more  stylish  !  I  can't 
stay  there  ;  it  isn't  fit  for  girls  !  " 

Dot's  cheeks  flamed,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Desire  Ledwith  stood  with  a  thoughtful,  troubled  expres 
sion  in  her  own. 

"  There  ought  to  be  other  ways,"  she  said.  "  There 
ought  to  be  more  sheltered  work  for  girls  !  " 


272  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  There  is,"  said  little  Bel  Bree  from  the  doorway, 
"  in  houses.  If  I  hadn't  Aunt  Blin,  I'd  go  right  into  a 
family  as  seamstress  or  anything.  I  don't  believe  in  out 
doors  and  shops.  I've  only  lived  in  the  city  a  little 
while,  but  I've  seen  it.  And  just  think  of  the  streets 
and  streets  of  nice  houses,  where  people  live,  and 
girls  have  to  live  with  'em,  to  do  real  woman's  home 
work  !  And  it's  all  given  up  to  foreign  servants,  and 
our  girls  go  adrift,  and  live  anyhow.  'Tain't  right !  " 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  that  isn't  right  about  it,"  said 
Desire,  gravely  ;  knowing  better  than  Bel  the  difficul 
ties  in  the  way  of  new  domestic  ideas.  "  And  a  part  of 
it  is  that  the  houses  aren't  built,  or  the  ways  of  living 
planned,  for  '  our  girls,'  exactly.  Our  girls  aren't  happy 
in  underground  kitchens  and  sky  bedrooms." 

"  I  don't  know.  They  might  as  well  be  underground 
as  in  some  of  those  close,  crowded  shops.  And  their  bed 
rooms  can't  be  much  to  compare,  certain.  I'm  afraid 
they  like  the  crowds  best.  If  they  wanted  to,  and  would 
work  in,  and  try,  they  might  contrive.  Things  fix  them 
selves  accordingly,  after  a  while.  Somebody's  got  to  be 
gin.  I  can't  help  thinking  about  it." 

Desire  smiled. 

"  Your  thinking  may  be  a  first  sign  of  good  times,  lit 
tle  Bel,"  she  said.  "  Think  on.  That  is  the  way  every 
thing  begins ;  with  a  restlessness  in  some  one  or  two 
heads  about  it.  Perhaps  that  is  just  what  you  have 
come  down  from  New  Hampshire  for." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Bel  again.  She  began  a  good 
many  of  her  reflective,  suggestive  little  speeches  with 
that  hesitating  feeler  into  the  fog  of  social  perplexity  she 
essayed.  "  They're  just  as  bad  up  there,  now.  They  all 
get  away  to  the  towns,  and  the  trades,  'and  the  stores. 


"  WANTED."  273 

They  won't  go  into  the  houses ;  and  they  might  have 
such  good  places  !  " 

"  You  came  yourself,  you  see  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  wasn't  contented.  And  things  were  par 
ticular  with  me.  And  I  had  Aunt  Blin.  I  don't  want 
to  go  back,  either.  But  I  can  see  how  it  is." 

"  Things  are  particular  with  each  one,  in  some  sort  or 
another.  That  is  what  settles  it,  I  suppose,  and  ought 
to.  The  only  thing  is  to  be  sure  that  it  is  a  right  par 
ticular  that  does  it;  that  we  don't  let  in  any  wrong 
particular,  anywhere.  For  you,  Dorothy,  I  don't  believe 
shop-life  is  the  thing.  You  have  found  it  out.  Why  not 
change  at  once?  There  is  the  machine  at  home,  and 
Ray  is  going  to  be  busy  in  Neighbor  Street.  Won't  her 
work  naturally  come  to  you  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  much  of  it,  and  it  is  so  uncertain.  The 
shops  take  up  all  the  bulk  of  work  nowadays ;  everything  . 
is  wholesale  ;  and  I  don't  want  to  go  into  the  rooms,  if  I 
can  help  it.  I  don't  like  days'  work,  either.  The  fact 
is,  I  want  a  quiet  place,  and  the  same  things.  I  like  my 
own  machine.  I  would  go  with  it  info  a  family,  if  I 
could  have  my  own  room,  and  be  nice,  and  not  have  to 
eat  with  careless,  common  servants  in  a  dirty  kitchen. 
Mother  would  spare  me,  —  to  a  real  good  situation ;  and 
I  would  come  home  Sundays." 

"  I  see.  What  you  want  is  somewhere,  of  course. 
Wouldn't  you  advertise  ?  " 

"  Would  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  would.  Say  exactly  what  you  want, 
wages  and  all.  And  put  it  into  some  family  Sunday 
paper,  —  the  4  Christian  Register,'  for  instance.  Those 
things  get  read  over  and  over ;  and  the  same  paper  lies 
about  a  week.  In  the  dailies,  one  thing  crowds  out 

18 


274  THE   OTHEK   GIRLS. 

another  ;  a  new  list  every  night  and  morning.  See  here  ; 
I'll  write  one  now.  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  be  too  late  for 
this  week.  Would  you  go  out  of  town  ?  " 

"  Wouldn't  I  ?  I  think  sometimes  that's  just  what  ails 
me  ;  wanting  to  see  soft  roads  and  green  grass  and  door- 
yards  and  sun  between  the  houses !  But  I  couldn't  go 
far,  of  course." 

Desire's  pencil  was  flying  over  the  paper. 

"  *  Wanted  ;  a  permanent  situation  in  a  pleasant  family, 
as  seamstress,  by  a  young  girl  used  to  all  kinds  of  sewing, 
who  will  bring  her  own  machine.  Would  like  a  room  to 
herself,  and  to  have  her  meals  orderly  and  comfortable, 
whether  with  the  family  or  otherwise.  Wages  ' — What  ?  " 

"  By  the  day,  I  could  get  a  dollar  and  a  quarter,  at 
least ;  but  for  a  real  good  home-place,  I'd  go  for  four  dol 
lars  a  week." 

u  4  Wages,  $4.00  per  week.  A  little  way  out  of  town 
preferred.'  There !  There  are  such  places,  and  why 
shouldn't  one  come  to  you  ?  Take  that  down  to  the 
4  Register '  office  to-morrow  morning,  and  have  it  put  in 
twice,  unless  stopped." 

"  Thank  you.  It's  all  easy  enough,  Miss  Ledwith. 
Why  didn't  I  work  it  out  myself  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  quite  worked  out,  yet.  But  things  always 
look  clearer,  somehow,  through  two  pairs  of  eyes.  Good 
night.  Let  me  know  what  you  hear  about  it." 

"  She'll  surprise  some  family  with  such  a  seamstress  as 
they  read  about,"  said  Bel  Bree,  on  the  door-step.  "  I 
should  like  to  astonish  people,  sometime,  with  a  heavenly 
kind  of  general  housework." 

"  That  was  a  good  idea  of  yours  about  the  Sunday 
paper,"  said  Sylvie,  as  she  and  Hazel  and  Desire  went 
back  into  the  library  to  put  away  the  books.  "But  what 


"  WANTED."  275 

when  the  common  sort  pick  up  the  dodge,  and  the  week 
lies  get  full  of  '  Wanteds '  ?  Nothing  holds  out  fresh, 
very  long." 

"  There  ought  to  be,"  said  Desire,  "  some  filtered  pro 
cess  for  these  things  ;  some  way  of  sifting  and  certifying. 
A  bureau  of  mutual  understanding  between  the  l  real 
folks,'  —  employers  and  employed.  I  believe  it  might 
be.  There  ought  to  be  for  this,  and  for  many  things,  a 
fellowship  organized,  between  women  of  different  out 
ward  degree.  And  something  will  happen,  sooner  or 
later,  to  bring  it  about.  A  money  crisis,  perhaps,  to 
throw  these  girls  out  of  shop-employment,  and  to  make 
heads  of  households  look  into  ways  of  more  careful  man 
aging.  A  mutual  need,  —  or  the  seeing  of  it.  The  need 
is  now  ;  these  girls  —  half  of  them  —  want  homes,  more 
than  anything  ;  and  the  homes  are  suffering  for  the  help 
of  just  such  girls." 

"  Why  don't  you  edit  a  paper,  Desire  ?  The  «  Fellow 
ship  Register,'  or  the  4  Domestic  Intelligencer,'  or  some 
thing  !  And  keep  lists  of  all  the  nice,  real  housekeepers, 
and  the  nice,  real,  willing  girls  ?  " 

"  That  isn't  a  bad  notion,  Hazie.  Your  notions  never 
are.  May  be  that  is  what  is  waiting  for  you.  Just  cover 
up  that  c  raised  Switzerland,'  will  you,  and  bring  it  over 
here  ?  And  roll  up  the  '  Course  of  the  Rhine,'  and  set  it 
in  the  corner.  There ;  now  we  may  put  out  the  gas. 
Sylvie,  has  your  mother  had  her  fresh  camomile  tea  ?  " 

The  three  girls  bade  each  other  good-night  at  the  stairs; 
just  where  Desire  had  stood  once,  and  put  her  arms  about 
Uncle  Titus's  neck  for  the  first  time.  She  often  thought 
of  it  now,  when  they  went  up  after  the  pleasant  evenings, 
and  came  down  in  the  bright  mornings  to  their  cheery 
breakfasts.  She  liked  to  stop  on  just  that  step.  Nobody 


276  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

knew  all  it  meant  to  her,  when  she  did.  There  are 
places  in  every  dwelling  that  keep  such  secrets  for  one 
heart  and  memory  alone. 

Yes,  indeed.  Sylvie  was  very  happy  now.  All  her 
pretty  pictures,  and  little  brackets,  and  her  mother's 
stands  and  vases  in  the  gray  parlor,  were  hung  with  the 
lovely,  wreathing,  fairy  stems  of  star-leaved,  blossomy 
fern  ;  and  the  sweet,  dry  scent  was  a  perpetual  subtle 
message.  That  day  in  the  train  from  East  Keaton  was  a 
day  to  pervade  the  winter,  as  this  woodland  breath  per 
vaded  the  old  city  house.  Sylvie  could  wait,  with  what 
she  had,  sure  that,  sometime,  more  was  coming.  She 
could  wait  better  than  Rodney.  Because,  —  she  knew 
she  was  waiting,  and  satisfied  to  wait.  How  did  Rodney 
know  that  ? 

It  was  what  he  kept  asking  his  Aunt  Euphrasia  in  his 
frequent,  boyish,  yet  most  manly,  letters.  And  she  kept 
answering,  "  You  need  not  fear.  I  think  I  understand 
Sylvie.  I  can  see.  If  there  were  anything  in  the  way, 
I  would  tell  you." 

But  at  last  she  had  to  say,  —  not,  "  I  think  I  under 
stand  Sylvie,"  —  but,  "  I  understand  girls,  Rodney.  I 
am  a  woman,  remember.  I  have  been  a  girl,  and  I  have 
waited.  I  have  waited  all  my  life.  The  right  girls  can." 

And  Rodney  said,  tossing  up  the  letter  with  a  shout, 
and  catching  it  with  a  loving  grasp  between  his  hands 
again,  — 

"  Good  for  you,  you  dear,  brave,  blessed  ace  of  hearts 
in  a  world  where  hearts  are  trumps  !  If  you  ain't  one  of 
the  right  old  girls,  then  they  don't  make  'em,  and  never 
did!" 


VOICES  AND   VISIONS.  277 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

VOICES   AND   VISIONS. 

lUTADAME  BYLLES  herself  walked  into  the  great 
*J*  work-room  of  Mesdames  Fillmer  &  Bylles,  one  Sat 
urday  morning. 

Madame  Bylles  was  a  lady  of  great  girth  and  presence. 
If  Miss  Tonker  were  sub-aristocratic,  Madame  Bylles  was 
almost  super-aristocratic,  so  cumulative  had  been  the 
effect  upon  her  style  and  manner  of  constant  professional 
contact  with  the  elite.  Carriages  had  rolled  up  to  her 
door,  until  she  had  got  the  roll  of  them  into  her  very 
voice.  Airs  and  graces  had  swept  in  and  out  of  her  pri 
vate  audience-room,  that  had  not  been  able  to  take  all  of 
themselves  away  again.  As  the  very  dust  grows  golden 
and  precious  where  certain  workmanship  is  carried  on, 
the  touch  and  step  and  speech  of  those  who  had  come 
ordering,  consulting,  coaxing,  beseeching,  to  her  apart 
ments,  had  filled  them  with  infinitesimal  particles  of  a 
Bublime  efflorescence,  by  which  the  air  itself  in  which 
they  floated  became  —  not  the  air  of  shop  or  business  or 
down-town  street — but  the  air  of  drawing-room,  and 
bon-ton,  and  Beacon  Hill  or  the  New  Land. 

And  Madame  Bylles  breathed  it  all  the  time  ;  she  dwelt 
in  the  courtly  contagion.  When  she  came  in  among  her 
work-people,  it  was  an  advent  of  awe.  It  was  as  if  all 
the  elegance  that  had  ever  been  made  up  there  came 
floating  and  spreading  and  shining  in,  on  one  portly  and 
magnificent  person. 

But  when  Madame  Bylles  came  in,  in  one  of  her  majes- 


278  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

tic  hurries  !  Then  it  was  as  if  the  globe  itself  had  orders 
to  move  on  a  little  faster,  and  make  out  the  year  in  two 
hundred  and  eighty  days  or  so,  and  she  was  appointed  to 
see  it  done. 

She  was  in  one  of  these  grand  and  grave  accelerations 
this  morning.  Miss  Pashaw's  marriage  was  fixed  for  a 
fortnight  earlier  than  had  been  intended,  business  calling 
Mr.  Soldane  abroad.  There  were  dresses  to  be  hurried  ; 
work  for  over-hours  was  to  be  given  out.  Miss  Tonker 
was  to  use  every  exertion ;  temporary  hands,  if  reliable, 
might  be  employed.  All  must  be  ready  by  Thursday 
next ;  Madame  Bylles  had  given  her  word  for  it. 

The  manner  in  which  she  loftily  transmitted  this  grand 
intelligence,  warm  from  the  high-born  lips  that  had 
favored  her  with  the  confidence,  —  the  air  of  intending 
it  for  Miss  Tonker's  secondarily  distinguished  ear  alone, 
while  the  carriage-roll  in  her  accents  bore  it  to  the 
farthest  corner  in  the  room,  where  the  meekest  little 
woman  sat  basting,  —  these  things  are  indescribable. 
But  they  are  in  human  nature :  you  can  call  them  up 
and  scrutinize  them  for  yourself. 

Madame  Bylles  receded  like  a  tidal  wave,  having  heaved 
up,  and  changed,  and  overwhelmed  all  things. 

A  great  buzz  succeeded  her  departure ;  Miss  Tonkers 
followed  her  out  upon  the  landing. 

"  I'll  speak  for  that  cashmere  peignoir  that  is  just  cut 
out.  I'll  make  it  nights,  and  earn  me  an  ostrich  band  for 
my  hat,"  said  Elise  Mokey. 

One  spoke  for  one  thing ;  one  another ;  they  were 
claimed  beforehand,  in  this  fashion,  by  a  kind  of  work 
women's  code  ;  as  publishers  advertise  foreign  books  in 
press,  arid  keep  the  first  right  by  courtesy. 

Miss  Proddle  stopped  her  machine  at  last,  and  caught 
the  news  in  her  slow  fashion  hind  side  before. 


VOICES  AND   VISIONS.  279 

"  We  mi glit  some  of  us  have  overwork,  I  should  think ; 
shouldn't  you  ?  "  she  asked,  blandly,  of  Miss  Bree. 

Aunt  Blin  smiled.  "  They've  been  squabbling  over  it 
these  five  minutes,"  she  replied. 

Aunt  Blin  was  sure  of  some  particular  finishing,  that 
none  could  do  like  her  precise  old  self. 

Kate  Sencerbox  jumped  up  impatiently,  reaching  over 
for  some  fringe. 

"  I  shall  have  to  give  it  up,"  she  whispered  emphati 
cally  into  Bel  Bree's  ear.  "  It's  no  use  your  asking  me 
to  go  to  Chapel  any  more.  I  ain't  sanctified  a  grain.  I 
did  begin  to  think  there  was  a  kind  of  work  of  grace 
begun  hi  me,  —  but  I  can't  stand  Miss  Proddle  !  What 
are  people  made  to  strike  ten  for,  always,  when  it's 
eleven  ? " 

"  I  think  iv  e  are  all  striking  twelve''  said  Bel  Bree. 
"  One's  too  fast,  and  another's  too  slow,  but  the  sun  goes 
round  exactly  the  same." 

Miss  Tonker  came  back,  and  the  talk  hushed. 
"  Clock  struck  one,  and  down  they  run,  hickory,  dick- 
ory,  dock,"  said  Miss  Proddle,  deliberately,  so  that  her 
voice  brought  up  the  subsiding  rear  of    sound  and  was 
heard  alone. 

"  What  under  the  sun  ?  "  exclaimed  Miss  Tonker,  with 
a  gaze  of  mingled  amazement,  mystification,  and  con 
tempt,  at  the  poor  old  maiden  making  such  unwonted 
noise. 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Kate  Sencerbox.  "  It  is  '  under  the 
sun,'  that  we're  talking  about ;  the  way  things  turn 
round,  and  clocks  strike  ;  some  too  fast,  and  some  too 
slow;  and  — whether  there's  anything  new  under  the 
sun.  I  think  there  is;  Miss  Proddle  made  a  bright 
speech,  that's  all." 


280  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

>~ 

Miss  Tonker,  utterly  bewildered,  took  refuge  in  solemn 
and  supercilious  disregard  ;  as  if  she  saw  the  joke,  and 
considered  it  quite  beneath  remark. 

"You  will  please  resume  your  work,  and  remember 
the  rules,"  she  said,  and  sailed  down  upon  the  cutters' 
table. 

There  was  a  certain  silk  evening  dress,  of  singular  and 
indescribably  lovely  tint,  — a  tea-rose  pink  ;  just  the  color 
of  the  blush  and  creaminess  that  mingle  themselves  into 
such  delicious  anonymousness  in  the  exquisite  flower.  It 
was  all  puffed  and  fluted  till  it  looked  as  if  it  had  really 
blossomed  with  uncounted  curving  petals,  that  showed 
in  their  tender  convolutions  each  possible  deepening  and 
brightening  of  its  wonderful  hue. 

It  looked  fragrant.  It  conveyed  a  subtle  sense  of 
flavor.  It  fed  and  provoked  every  perceptive  sense. 

It  was  not  a  dress  to  be  hurried  with  ;  every  quill  and 
gather  of  its  trimming  must  be  "  set  just  so ;  "  and  there 
was  still  one  flounce  to  be  made,  and  these  others  were 
only  basted,  as  also  the  corsage. 

After  the  hours  were  up  that  afternoon,  Miss  Tonker 
called  Aunt  Blin  aside.  She  uncovered  the  large  white 
box  in  which  it  lay,  unfinished. 

"  You  have  a  nice  room,  Miss  Bree.  Can  you  take 
this  home  and  finish  it,  — -  by  Wednesday  ?  In  over- 
hours,  I  mean ;  I  shall  want  you  here  daytimes,  as  usual. 
It  has  been  tried  on  ;  all  but  for  the  hanging  of  the 
skirt;  you  can  take  the  measures  from  the  white  one. 
That  I  shall  finish  myself." 

Aunt  Blin's  voice  trembled  with  humble  ecstasy  as  she 
answered.  She  thanked  Miss  Tonker  in  a  tone  timid 
with  an  apprehension  of  some  possible  unacceptableness, 
which  should  disturb  or  change  the  favoring  grace. 


VOICES   AND   VISIONS.  281 

"  Certainly,  ma'am.  I'll  spread  a  sheet  on  the  floor, 
and  put  a  white  cloth  on  the  table.  Thank  you,  ma'am. 
Yes ;  I  have  a  nice  room,  and  nothing  gets  meddled  with. 
It'll  be  quite  safe  there.  I'm  sure  I'm  no  less  than 
happy  to  be  allowed.  You're  very  kind,  ma'am." 

Miss  Tonker  said  nothing  at  all  to  the  meekly  nervous 
outpouring.  She  did  not  snub  her,  however ;  that  was 
something. 

Miss  Bree  and  her  niece,  between  them,  carried  home 
the  large  box. 

On  the  way,  a  dream  ran  through  the  head  of  Bel. 
She  could  not  help  it. 

To  have  this  beautiful  dress  in  the  house,  —  perhaps  to 
have  to  stand  up  and  be  tried  to,  for  the  fall  of  its  deli 
cate,  rosy  trail ;  with  the  white  cloth  on  the  floor,  and 
the  bright  light  all  through  the  room,  —  why  it  would  be 
almost  like  a  minute  of  a  ball  ;  and  what  if  the  door 
should  be  open,  and  somebody  should  happen  to  go  by, 
up-stairs  ?  If  she  could  be  so,  and  be  seen  so,  just  one 
minute,  in  that  blush-colored  silk !  She  should  like  to 
look  like  that,  just  once,  to  somebody ! 

Ah,  little  Bel !  behind  all  her  cosy,  practical  living  — 
all  her  busy  work  and  contentedness  —  all  her  bright 
notions  of  what  might  be  possible,  for  the  better,  in 
things  that  concerned  her  class,  —  she  had  her  little, 
vague,  bewildering  flashes  of  vision,  in  which  she  saw 
impossible  things ;  things  that  might  happen  in  a  book, 
things  that  must  be  so  beautiful  if  they  ever  did  really 
happen ! 

A  step  went  up  and  down  the  stairs  and  along  the 
passage  by  her  aunt's  room,  day  by  day,  that  she  had 
learned  to  notice  every  time  it  came.  A  face  had  glanced 
in  upon  her  now  and  then,  when  the  door  stood  open  for 


282  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

coolness  in  the  warm  September  weather,  when  they  had 
been  obliged  to  have  a  fire  to  make  the  tea,  or  to  heat  an 
iron  to  press  out  seams  in  work  that  they  were  doing. 
One  or  two  days  of  each  week,  they  had  taken  work 
home.  On  those  days,  they  did,  perhaps,  their  own  little 
washing  or  ironing,  besides ;  sewing  between  whiles,  and 
taking  turns,  and  continuing  at  their  needles  far  on  into 
the  night.  Once  Mr.  Hewland  had  come  in,  to  help 
Aunt  Blin  with  a  blind  that  was  swinging  by  a  single 
hinge,  and  which  she  was  trying,  against  a  boisterous 
wind,  to  reset  with  the  other.  After  that,  he  had  always 
spoken  to  them  when  he  met  them.  He  had  opened 
and  shut  the  street-door  for  them,  standing  back,  courte 
ously,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  to  let  them  pass. 

Aunt  Blin,  —  dear  old  simple,  kindly-hearted  Aunt 
Blin,  who  believed  cats  and  birds,  —  her  cat  and  bird,  at 
least,  —  might  be  thrown  trustfully  into  each  other's 
company,  if  only  she  impressed  it  sufficiently  upon  the 
quadruped's  mind  from  the  beginning,  that  the  bird  was 
"  very,  very  precious, "  —  thought  Mr.  Hewland  was 
"  such  a  nice  young  man." 

And  so  he  was.  A  nice,  genial,  well-meaning,  well- 
bred  gentleman  ;  above  anything  ignoble,  or  consciously 
culpable,  or  common.  His  danger  lay  in  his  higher  ten 
dencies.  He  had  artistic  tastes ;  he  was  a  lover  of  all 
grace  and  natural  sweetness  ;  no  line  of  beauty  could 
escape  him.  More  than  that,  he  drew  toward  all  that 
was  most  genuine  ;  he  cared  nothing  for  the  elegant  arti 
ficialities  among  which  his  social  position  placed  him. 
He  had  been  singularly  attracted  by  this  little  New 
Hampshire  girl,  fresh  and  pretty  as  a  wild  rose,  and  full 
of  bright,  quaint  ways  and  speech,  of  which  he  had 
caught  glimpses  and  fragments  in  their  near  neighbor- 


VOICES   AND   VISIONS.  283 

hood.  Now  and  then,  from  her  open  window  up  to  his, 
had  come  her  gay,  sweet  laugh  ;  or  her  raised,  gleeful 
tone,  as  she  said  some  funny,  quick,  shrewd  thing  in  her 
original  fashion  to  her  aunt. 

Through  the  month  of  August,  while  work  was  slack, 
and  the  Hewland  family  was  away  travelling,  and  other 
lodgers'  rooms  were  vacated,  the  Brees  had  been  more  at 
home,  and  Morris  Hewland  had  been  more  in  his  rooms 
above,  than  had  been  usual  at  most  times.  The  music 
mistress  had  taken  a  vacation,  and  gone  into  the  coun 
try  ;  only  old  Mr.  Sparrow,  lame  with  one  weak  ankle, 
hopped  up  and  down ;  and  the  spare,  odd-faced  land 
lady  glided  about  the  -passages  with  her  prim  profile 
always  in  the  same  pose,  reminding  one  of  a  badly-made 
rag-doll,  of  which  the  nose,  chin,  and  chest  are  in  one 
invincible  flat  line,  interrupted  feebly  by  an  unsuccessful 
hint  of  drawing  in  at  the  throat. 

Mr.  Hewland  liked  June  for  his  travels  ;  and  July  and 
August,  when  everybody  was  out  of  the  way,  for  his 
quiet  summer  work. 

The  Hewlands  called  him  odd,  and  let  him  go  ;  he 
stayed  at  home  sometimes,  and  he  happened  in  and  out ; 
they  knew  where  to  find  him,  and  there  was  "  no  harm 
in  Morris  but  his  artistic  peculiarities." 

He  had  secured  in  these  out-of-the  way-lodgings  in 
Leicester  Place,  one  of  the  best  north  lights  that  could  be 
had  in  the  city  ;  he  would  not  take  a  room  among  a  lot 
of  others  in  a  Studio  Building.  So  he  worked  up  his 
studies,  painted  his  pictures,  let  nobody  come  near  him 
except  as  he  chose  to  bring  them,  and  when  he  wanted 
anything  of  the  world,  went  out  into  the  world  and  got 
it. 

Now,  something  had  come  right  in  .here  close  to  him, 


284  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

which  brought  him  a  certain  sense  of  such  a  world  as  he 
could  not  go  out  into  at  will,  to  get  what  he  wanted.  A 
world  of  simplicities,  of  blessed  contents,  of  unworn,  joy 
ous  impulses,  of  little  new,  unceasing  spontaneities  ;  a 
world  that  he  looked  into,  as  we  used  to  do  at  Sattler's 
Cosmoramas,  through  the  merest  peepholes,  and  compre 
hended  by  the  merest  hints  ;  but  which  the  presence  of 
this  girl  under  the  roof  with  himself  as  surely  revealed  to 
him  as  the  wind-flower  reveals  the  spring. 

On  her  part,  Bel  Bree  got  a  glimpse,  she  knew  not 
how,  of  a  world  above  and  beyond  her  own ;  a  world  of 
beauty,  of  power,  of  reach  and  elevation,  in  which  peo 
ple  like  Morris  Hewland  dwelt.  His  step,  his  voice,  his 
words  now  and  then  'to  the  friend  or  two  whom  he  had 
the  habit  of  bringing  in  with  him,  —  the  mere  knowledge 
that  he  "  made  pictures,"  such  pictures  as  she  looked  at 
in  the  windows  and  in  art-dealers'  rooms,  where  any  shop 
girl,  as  freely  as  the  most  elegant  connoisseur,  can  go  in 
and  delight  her  eyes,  and  inform  her  perceptions,  —  these, 
without  the  face  even,  which  had  turned  its  magnetism 
straight  upon  her's  only  once  or  twice,  and  whose  revela 
tion  was  that  of  a  life  related  to  things  wide  and  full 
and  manifold,  —  gave  her  the  stimulating  sense  of  a 
something  to  which  she  had  not  come,  but  to  which  she 
felt  a  strange  belonging. 

Beside,  —  alongside  —  in  each  mind,  was  the  undevel 
oped  mystery  ;  the  spell  under  which  a  man  receives  such 
intuitions  through  a  woman's  presence,  —  a  woman 
through  a  man's.  Yet  these  two  individuals  were  not, 
therefore,  going  to  be  necessary  to  each  other,  in  the 
plan  of  God.  Other  things  might  show  that  they  were 
not  meant,  in  rightness,  for  each  other  ;  they  represented 
mutually,  something  that  each  life  missed  ;  but  the  some- 


VOICES  AND   VISIONS.  285 

thing  was  in  no  special  companionship  ;  it  was  a  great 
deal  wider  and  higher  than  that.  They  might  have  to 
learn  that  it  was  so,  nevertheless,  by  some  briefly  painful 
process  of  experience.  If  in  this  process  they  should  fall 
into  mistake  and  wrong,  —  ah,  there  would  come  the 
experience  beyond  the  experience,  the  depth  they  were 
not  meant  to  sound,  yet  which,  if  they  let  their  game 
of  life  run  that  way,  they  could  not  get  back  from  but 
through  the  uttermost.  They  must  play  it  out ;  the 
move  could  not  be  taken  back,  —  yet  awhile.  The  possi 
ble  better  combinations  are  in  God's  knowledge;  how  He 
may  ever  reset  the  pieces  and  give  his  good  chances 
again,  remains  the  hidden  hope,  resting  upon  the  Christ 
that  is  in  the  heart  of  Him. 

One  morning  Morris  Hewland  had  come  up  the  stairs 
with  a  handful  of  tuberoses  ;  he  was  living  at  home,  then, 
through  the  pleasant  September,  at  his  father's  country 
place,  whence  the  household  would  soon  remove  to  the 
city  for  the  winter. 

Miss  Bree's  door  was  open.  She  was  just  replacing 
her  door-mat,  which  she  had  been  shaking  out  of  the 
entry  window.  She  had  an  old  green  veil  tied  down  over 
her  head  to  keep  the  dust  off  ;  nobody  could  suspect  any 
harm  of  a  wish  or  a  willingness  to  have  a  word  wilh  her  ; 
Morris  Hewland  could  not  have  suspected  it  of  himself, 
if  he  had  indeed  got  so  far  as  to  investigate  his  passing 
impulses.  There  was  something  pitiful  in  the  contrast, 
perhaps,  of  the  pure,  fresh,  exquisite  blossoms,  and  the 
breath  of  sweet  air  he  and  they  brought  with  them  in 
their  swift  transit  from  the  places  where  it  blessed  all 
things  to  the  places  where  so  much  languished  in  the 
need  of  it,  not  knowing,  even,  the  privation.  The  old, 
trodden,  half -cleansed  door-mat  in  her  hands, — the  just- 


286  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

created  beauty  in  his.  He  stopped,  and  divided  his 
handful. 

"  Here,  Miss  Bree,  —  you  would  like  a  piece  of  the 
country,  I  imagine,  this  morning  !  I  couldn't  have  come 
in  without  it." 

The  voice  rang  blithe  and  bright  into  the  room  where 
Bel  sat,  basting  machine  work  ;  the  eyes  went  after  the 
voice. 

The  light  from  the  east  window  was  full  upon  the 
shining  hair,  the  young,  unworn  outlines,  the  fresh,  pure 
color  of  the  skin.  Few  city  beauties  could  bear  such 
morning  light  as  that.  Nothing  but  the  morning  in  the 
face  can  meet  it. 

Morris  Hewland  lifted  his  hat,  and  bowed  toward  the 
young  girl,  silently.  Then  he  passed  on,  up  to  his  room. 
Bel  heard  his  step,  back  and  forth,  overhead. 

The  tuberoses  were  put  into  a  clear,  plain  tumbler. 
Bel  would  not  have  them  in  the  broken  vase  ;  she  would 
not  have  them  in  a  Hue  vase,  at  all.  She  laid  a  white 
napkin  over  the  red  of  the  tablecloth,  and  set  them  on 
it.  The  perfume  rose  from  them  and  spread  all  through 
the  room. 

"  I  am  so  glad  we  have  work  at  home  to-day,"  said 
Bel. 

There  had  been  nothing  but  little  things  like  these ; 
but  into  Bel's  head,  as  she  and  Aunt  Blin  carried  home 
the  tea-blush  silk,  and  laid  it  by  with  care  in  its  white 
box  upon  the  sofa-end,  came  that  little  wish,  with  a 
spring  and  a  heart-beat,  —  "If  she  might  have  it  on  for 
a  minute,  and  if  in  that  minute  he  might  happen  to  come 
by!" 

She  did  not  think  she  was  planning  for  it ;  but  when 
on  the  Tuesday  evening  the  step  went  down  the  stairs  at 


VOICES   AND   VISIONS.  287 

eight  o'clock,  while  they  sat  busily  working,  each  at  a 
sleeve,  by  the  drop-light  over  the  white-covered  table,  a 
little  involuntary  calculation  ran  through  her  thoughts. 

"He  always  comes  back  by  eleven.  We  shall  have 
two  hours'  work  —  or  more,  —  on  this,  if  we  don't 
hurry  ;  and  it's  miserable  to  hurry  !  " 

They  stitched  on,  comfortably  enough  ;  yet  the  sleeves 
were  finished  sooner  than  she  expected.  Before  nine 
o'clock,  Aunt  Blin  was  sewing  them  in.  Then  Bel 
wanted  a  drink  of  water  ;  then  they  could  not  both  get 
at  the  waist  together ;  there  was  no  need. 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Bel,  out  of  her  conscience,  with  a 
jump  of  fright  as  she  said  it,  lest  Aunt  Blin  should  take 
her  at  her  word,  and  begin  gauging  and  plaiting  the 
skirt. 

"  No,  you  rest.     I  shall  want    you  by  and  by,  for  a 

£§• 
gure. 

"  May  I  have  it  all  on  ?  "  says  Bel  eagerly.  "Do, 
Auntie !  I  should  just  like  to  be  in  such  a  dress  once  — a 
minute ! " 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  not.  You  couldn't  do 
any  hurt  to  it,  if  'twas  made  for  a  queen,"  responded 
Aunt  Blin. 

"  I'll  do  up  my  hair  on  the  top  of  my  head,"  said  Bel. 

And  forthwith,  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  away  from 
the  delicate  robe  and  its  scattered  material,  she  got  out 
her  combs  and  brushes,  and  let  down  her  gleaming  brown 
hair. 

It  took  different  shades,  from  umber  to  almost  golden, 
this  "  funny  hair  "  of  hers,  as  she  called  it.  She  thought 
it  was  because  she  had  faded  it,  playing  out  in  the  sun 
when  she  was  a  child ;  but  it  was  more  like  having  got 
the  shine  into  it.  It  did  not  curl,  or  wave  ;  but  it  grew 


288  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

in  lovely  arches,  with  roots  even  set,  around  her  temples 
and  in  the  curves  of  her  neck ;  and  now,  as  she  combed 
it  up  in  a  long,  beautiful  mass,  over  her  grasping  hand, 
raising  it  with  each  sweep  higher  toward  the  crown  of  her 
pretty  head,  all  this  vigorous,  beautiful  growth  showed 
itself,  and  marked  with  its  shadowy  outline  the  dainty 
shapings.  One  twist  at  the  top  for  the  comb  to  go  in, 
and  then  she  parted  it  in  two,  and  coiled  it  like  a  golden- 
bronze  cable  ;  and  laid  it  round  and  round  till  the  fore 
most  turn  rested  like  a  wreath  midway  about  her  head. 
She  pulled  three  fresh  geranium  leaves  and  a  pink-white 
umbel  of  blossom  from  the  plant  in  the  window,  and 
tucked  the  cluster  among  the  soft  front  locks  against  the 
coil  above  the  temple. 

Then  she  took  off  the  loose  wrapping-sack  she  had 
thrown  over  her  shoulders,  washed  her  fingers  at  the 
basin,  and  came  back  to  her  seat  under  the  lamp. 

Aunt  Blin  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled.  It  was  like 
having  it  all  herself,  —  this  youth  and  beauty,  —  to  have 
it  belonging  to  her,  and  showing  its  charming  ways  and 
phases,  in  little  Bel.  Why  shouldn't  the  child,  with  her 
fair,  sweet  freshness,  and  the  deep-green,  velvety  leaves 
making  her  look  already  like  a  rose  against  which  they 
leaned  themselves,  have  on  this  delicate  rose  dress?  If 
things  stayed,  or  came,  where  they  belonged,  to  whom 
should  it  more  fittingly  fall  to  wear  it  than  to  her  ? 

Bel  watched  the  clock  and  Aunt  Blin's  fingers. 

It  was  ten  when  the  plaits  and  gathers  were  laid,  and 
the  skirt  basted  to  its  band  for  the  trying.  Bel  was  dil 
atory  one  minute,  and  in  a  hurry  the  next. 

"  It  would  be  done  too  soon ;  but  he  might  come  in 
early;  and,  O  dear,  they  hadn't  thought,  —  there  was 
that  puffing  to  put  round  the  corsage,  bertha-wise,  with 
the  blonde  edging.  4  It  was  all  ready  ;  give  it  to  her.' " 


VOICES   AND   VISIONS.  289 

"  Now ! " 

The  wonderful,  glistening,  aurora-like  robe  goes  over 
her  head ;  she  stands  in  the  midst,  with  the  tender  glow 
ing  color  sweeping  out  from  her  upon  the  white  sheet 
pinned  down  above  the  carpet. 

Was  that  anybody  coming  ? 

Aunt  Blin  left  her  for  an  instant  to  put  up  the  window- 
top  that  had  been  open  to  cool  the  lighted  and  heated 
room.  Bel  might  catch  cold,  standing  like  this. 

"  O,  it  is  so  warm,  Auntie  !  We  can't  have  everything 
shut  up  !  "  And  with  this  swift  excuse  instantly  suggest 
ing  itself  and  making  justification  to  her  deceitful  little 
heart  that  lay  in  wait  for  it,  Bel  sprang  to  the  opposite 
corner  where  the  doorway  opened  full  toward  her,  diag 
onally  commanding  the  room.  She  set  it  hastily  just  a 
hand's  length  ajar.  "  There  is  no  wind  in  the  entry,  and 
nobody  will  come,"  she  said. 

When  she  was  only  excitedly  afraid  there  wouldn't ! 
I  cannot  justify  little  Bel.  I  do  not  try  to. 

"  Now,  see  !  isn't  it  beautiful  ?  " 

"It  sags  just  a  crumb,  here  at  the  left,"  said  Aunt 
Blin,  poking  and  stooping  under  Bel's  elbow.  "  No ;  it  is 
only  a  baste  give  way.  Yoii  shouldn't  have  sprung  so, 
child." 

The  bare  neck  and  the  dimpled  arms  showed  from 
among  the  cream-pink  tints  like  the  high  white  lights 
upon  the  rose.  Bel  had  not  looked  in  the  glass  yet : 
Aunt  Blin  was  busy,  and  she  really  had  not  thought  of 
it ;  she  was  happy  just  in  being  in  that  beautiful  raiment 
—  in  the  heart  of  its  color  and  shine  ;  feeling  its  softly 
rustling  length  float  away  from  her,  and  reach  out  ra 
diantly  behind.  What  is  there  about  that  sweeping  and 
trailing  that  all  women  like,  and  that  becomes  them  so  ? 

19 


290  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

That  even  the  little  child  pins  a  shawl  about  her  waist 
and  walks  to  and  fro,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  to  get  a 
sensation  of  ? 

The  door  did  shut,  below.  A  step  did  come  up  the 
stairs,  with  a  few  light  springs. 

Suddenly  Bel  was  ashamed ! 

She  did  not  want  it,  now  that  it  had  come  !  She  had 
set  a  dreadful  trap  for  herself  ! 

"  O,  Aunt  Blin,  let  me  go  I  Put  something  over  me  !  " 
she  whispered. 

But  Aunt  Blin  was  down  on  the  floor,  far  behind  her, 
drawing  out  and  arranging  the  slope  of  the  train,  meas 
uring  from  hem  to  band  with  her  professional  eye. 

The  footstep  suddenly  checked ;  then,  as  if  with  an  as 
swift  bethinking,  it  went  by.  But  through  that  door 
ajar,  in  that  bright  light  that  revealed  the  room,  Morris 
Hewlancl  had  been  smitten  with  the  vision  ;  had  seen  lit 
tle  Bel  Bree  in  all  the  possible  flush  of  fair  array,  and 
marvelous  blossom  of  consummate,  adorned  loveliness. 

Somehow,  it  broke  down  the  safeguard  he  had  had. 

In  what  was  Bel  Bree  different,  really,  from  women 
who  wore  such  robes  as  that,  with  whom  he  had  danced 
and  chatted  in  drawing-rooms  ?  Only  in  being  a  thou 
sand  times  fresher  and  prettier. 

After  that,  he  began  to  make  reasons  for  speaking  to 
them.  He  brought  Aunt  Blin  a  lot  of  illustrated  pa 
pers  ;  he  lent  them  a  stereoscope,  with  Alpine  and  Ital 
ian  views ;  he  brought  down  a  picture  of  his  own,  one 
day,  to  show  them  ;  before  October  was  out,  he  had  spent 
an  evening  in  Aunt  Blin's  room,  reading  aloud  to  them 
"Mireio." 

Among  the  strange  metaphysical  doublings  which  hu 
man  nature  discovers  in  itself,  there  is  such  a  fact,  not 
seldom  experienced,  as  the  dreaming  of  a  dream. 


VOICES  AND   VISIONS.  291 

It  is  one  thing  to  dream  utterly,  so  that  one  believes 
one  is  awake  ;  it  is  another  to  sleep  in  one's  dream,  and 
in  a  vision  give  way  to  vision.  It  is  done  in  sleep,  it  is 
done  also  in  life. 

This  was  what  Bel  Bree  —  and  it  is  with  her  side  of 
the  experience  that  I  have  business  —  was  in  danger  now 
of  doing. 

It  is  done  in  life,  as  to  many  forms  of  living  —  as 
to  religion,  as  to  art.  People  are  religious,  not  infre 
quently  because  they  are  in  love  with  the  idea  of  being 
so,  not  because  they  are  simply  and  directly  devoted  to 
God.  They  are  sesthetic,  because  "  The  Beautiful "  is  so 
beautiful,  to  see  and  to  talk  of,  and  they  choose  to  affect 
artistic  having  and  doing  ;  but  they  have  not  come  even 
into  that  sheepfold  by  the  door,  by  the  honest,  inevita 
ble  pathway  that  their  nature  took  because  it  must,  —  by 
the  entrance  that  it  found  through  a  force  of  celestial 
urging  and  guidance  that  was  behind  them  all  the  while, 
though  they  but  half  knew  it  or  understood. 

Women  fall  in  love  that  way,  so  often  !  It  is  a  lovely 
thing  to  be  loved ;  there  is  new  living,  which  seems  to 
them  rare  and  grand,  into  which  it  offers  to  lift  them  up. 
They  fall  into  a  dreain  about  a  dream ;  they  do  not  lay 
them  down  to  sleep  and  give  the  Lord  their  souls  to  keep, 
till  He  shall  touch  their  trustful  rest  with  a  divine  fire, 
and  waken  them  into  his  apocalypse. 

It  was  this  atmosphere  in  which  Morris  Hewland  lived, 
and  which  he  brought  about  him  to  transfuse  the  heavier 
air  of  her  lowly  living,  that  bewildered  Bel.  And  she 
knew  that  she  was  bewildered.  She  knew  that  it  was  the 
poetic  side  of  her  nature  that  was  stirred,  excited ;  not 
the  real  deep,  woman's  heart  of  her  that  found,  suddenly, 
its  satisfying.  If  women  will  look,  they  can  see  this. 


292  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

She  knew  —  she  had  found  out  —  that  she  was  a  fair 
picture  in  the  artist's  eyes ;  that  the  perception  keen  to 
discover  and  test  and  analyze  all  harmonies  of  form  and 
tint,  —  holding  a  hallowed,  mysterious  kinship  in  this 
power  to  the  Power  that  had  made  and  spoken  by  them, 
—  turned  its  search  upon  her,  and  found  her  lovely  in 
the  study.  It  was  as  if  a  daisy  bearing  the  pure  message 
and  meaning  of  the  heavenly,  could  thrill  with  the  con 
sciousness  of  its  transmission ;  could  feel  the  exaltation  of 
fulfilling  to  a  human  soul,  grand  in  its  far  up  mystery  and 
waiting  upon  God,  —  one  of  his  dear  ideas. 

There  was  something  holy  in  the  spirit  with  which  she 
thus  realized  her  possession  of  maidenly  beauty  ;  her  gift 
of  mental  charm  and  fitness  even  ;  it  was  the  countersign 
by  which  she  entered  into  this  realm  of  which  Morris 
Hewland  had  the  freedom  ;  it  belonged  to  her  also,  — 
she  to  it ;  she  had  received  her  first  recognition.  It  was 
a  look  back  into  Paradise  for  this  Eve's  daughter,  born 
to  labor,  but  with  a  reminiscence  in  her  nature  out  of 
which  she  had  built  all  her  sweetest  notions  of  being, 
doing,  abiding ;  from  which  came  the  home-picture,  so 
simple  in  its  outlines,  but  so  rich  and  gentle  in  all  its  sig 
nificance,  that  she  had  drawn  to  herself  as  "  her  wish  " ; 
the  thing  she  would  give  most,  and  do  most,  to  have 
come  true. 

But  all  this  was  not  necessarily  love,  even  in  its  begin 
ning,  —  though  she  might  come  for  a  while  to  fancy  it 
so,  —  for  this  one  man.  It  was  a  thing  between  her  own 
life  and  the  Maker  of  it;  an  unfolding  of  herself  toward 
that  which  waited  for  her  in  Him,  and  which  she  should 
surely  come  to,  whatever  she  might  grasp  at  mistakenly 
and  miss  upon  the  way. 

Morris  Hewland  —  young,  honest -hearted,  but  full  of  a 


VOICES   AND   VISIONS.  298 

young  man's  fire  and  impulse,  of  an  artist's  susceptibility 
to  outward  beauty,  of  the  ready  delight  of  educated  taste 
in  fresh,  natural,  responsive  cleverness  —  was  treading 
dangerous  ground. 

He,  too,  knew  that  he  was  bewildered ;  and  that  if  he 
opened  his  eyes  he  should  see  no  way  out  of  it.  There 
fore  he  shut  his  eyes  and  drifted  on. 

Aunt  Blin,  with  her  simplicity,  —  her  incapacity  of  be 
lieving,  though  there  might  be  wrong  and  mischief  in  the 
world,  that  anybody  she  knew  could  ever  do  it,  sat  there 
between  them,  the  most  bewildered,  the  most  inwardly 
and  utterly  befooled  of  the  three. 


294  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

BOX  FIFTY-TWO. 

IN  the  midst  of  it  all,  she  went  and  caught  a  horrible 
cold. 

Aunt  Blin,  I  mean. 

It  was  all  by  wearing  her  india-rubbers  a  week  too 
long,  a  week  after  she  had  found  the  heels  were  split  ; 
and  in  that  week  there  came  a  heavy  rain-storm. 

She  had  to  stay  at  home  now.  Bel  went  to  the  rooms 
and  brought  back  button-holes  for  her  to  make.  She 
could  not  do  much  ;  she  was  feverish  and  languid,  and 
her  eyes  suffered.  But  she  liked  to  see  something  in  the 
basket ;  she  was  always  going  to  be  "  well  enough  to 
morrow."  When  the  work  had  to  be  returned,  Bel  hur 
ried,  and  did  the  button-holes  of  an  evening. 

Mr.  Hewland  brought  grapes  and  oranges  and  flowers 
to  Miss  Bree.  Bel  fetched  home  little  presents  of  her 
own  to  her  aunt,  making  a  pet  of  her :  ice-cream  in  a 
paper  cone,  horehound  candy,  once,  a  tumbler  of  black 
currant  jelly.  But  that  last  was  very  dear.  If  Aunt 
Blin  had  eaten  much  of  other  things,  they  could  not  have 
afforded  it,  for  there  were  only  half  earnings  noAv. 

To-morrow  kept  coining,  but  Miss  Bree  kept  on  not 
getting  any  better.  "  She  didn't  see  the  reason,"  she 
said ;  "  she  never  had  a  cold  hang  on  so.  She  believed 
she'd  better  go  out  and  shake  it  off.  If  she  could  have 
rode  down-town  she  would,  but  somehow  she  didn't  seem 
to  have  the  strength  to  walk." 


BOX   FIFTY-TWO.  295 

The  reason  she  "  couldn't  have  rode,"  was  because  all 
the  horses  were  sick.  It  was  the  singular  epidemic  of 
1872.  There  were  no  cars,  no  teams  ;  the-queer  sight 
was  presented  in  a  great  city,  of  the  driveways  as  clear 
as  the  sidewalks  ;  of  nobody  needed  to  guard  the  crossings 
or  unsnarl  the  "  blocks  ;  "  of  stillness  like  Sunday,  day 
after  day  ;  of  men  harnessed  into  wagons,  —  eight  human 
beings  drawing,  slowly  and  heavily,  what  any  poor  old 
prickle-ribs  of  a  horse,  that  had  life  left  in  him  at  all, 
would  have  trotted  cheerfully  off  with.  A  lady's  trunk 
was  a  cartload  ;  and  a  lady's  trunk  passing  through  the 
streets  was  a  curiosity ;  you  could  scarcely  get  one 
carried  for  love  or  money. 

Aunt  Blin  was  a  good  deal  excited ;  she  always  was 
by  everything  that  befell  "  her  Boston."  She  would  sit 
by  the  window  in  her  blanket  shawl,  and  peer  down  the 
Place  to  see  the  mail-carts  and  express  wagons  creep 
slowly  by,  along  Tremont  Street,  to  and  from  the  rail 
ways.  She  was  proud  for  the  men  who  turned  to  and 
did  quadruped  work  with  a  will  in  the  emergency,  and 
so  took  hold  of  its  sublimity  ;  she  was  proud  of  the  poor 
horses,  standing  in  suffering  but  royal  seclusion  in  their 
stables,  with  hostlers  sitting  up  nights  for  them,  and  the 
world  and  all  its  business  "  seeing  how  it  could  get  along 
without  them ;  "  she  was  proud  of  all  this  crowd  of  busi 
ness  that  had,  by  hook  or  by  crook  (literally,  now),  to  be 
done. 

She  wanted  the  evening  paper  the  minute  it  came. 
She  and  the  music  mistress  took  the  "  Transcript "  between 
them,  and  had  the  first  reading  weeks  about.  This  was 
her  week  ;  she  held  herself  lucky. 

The  epizootic  was  like  the  war  :  we  should  have  to 
subside  into  common  items  that  would  not  seem  like  news 
at  all  when  that  was  over. 


296  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

We  all  know,  now,  what  the  news  was  after  the  epi 
zootic. 

Meanwhile  Aunt  Blin  believed,  "  on  her  conscience," 
she  had  got  the  epidemic  herself. 

Bel  had  worked  hard  at  the  rooms  this  week,  and  late 
at  home  in  the  evenings.  Some  of  the  girls  lived  out  at 
the  Highlands,  and  some  in  South  Boston  ;  there  were 
days  when  they  could  not  get  in  from  these  districts  ;  for 
such  as  were  on  the  spot  there  was  double  press  and 
hurry.  And  it  was  right  in  the  midst  of  fall  and  winter 
work.  Bel  earned  twelve  dollars  in  six  days,  and  got  her 

Pay- 
On  Saturday  night  she  brought  home  four  Chater's 
crumpets,  and  a  pint  of  oysters.  She  stewed  the  oysters 
in  a  porringer  out  of  which  everything  came  nicer  than 
out  of  any  other  utensil.  While  they  were  stewing,  she 
made  a  bit  of  butter  up  into  a  u  pat,"  and  stamped  it 
with  the  star  in  the  middle  of  the  pressed  glass  saltcellar  ; 
she  set  the  table  near  the  fire,  and  laid  it  out  in  a  spe 
cially  dainty  way  ;  then  she  toasted  the  muffins,  and  it 
was  past  seven  o'clock  before  all  was  done. 

Aunt  Blin  sat  by,  and  watched  and  smelled.  She  was 
in  no  hurry ;  two  senses  at  a  time  were  enough  to  have 
filled.  She  had  finished  the  paper,  —  it  was  getting  to 
be  an  old  and  much  rehashed  story,  now,  —  and  had  sent 
it  down  to  Miss  Smalley.  It  would  be  hers  first,  now, 
for  a  week.  Very  well,  the  excitement  was  over.  That 
was  all  she  knew  about  it. 

In  the  privacy  and  security  of  her  own  room,  and  with 
muffins  and  oysters  for  tea,  Aunt  Blin  took  out  her 
upper  teeth,  that  she  might  eat  comfortably.  Poor  Aunt 
Blin  !  she  showed  her  age  and  her  thinness  so.  She  had 
fallen  away  a  good  deal  since  she  had  been  sick.  But 


BOX   FIFTY-TWO.  297 

she  was  getting  better.  On  Monday  morning,  she  thought 
she  would  certainly  be  able  to  go  out.  All  she  had  to 
do  now  was  to  be  careful  of  her  cough  ;  and  Bel  had 
just  bought  her  a  new  pair  of  rubbers. 

Bartholomew  had  done  his  watching  and  smelling, 
likewise  ;  he  had  made  all  he  could  be  expected  to  of  that 
limited  enjoyment.  Now  he  walked  round  the  table 
with  an  air  of  consciousness  that  supper  was  served.  He 
sat  by  his  mistress's  chair,  lifted  one  paw  with  well-bred 
expressiveness,  stretching  out  the  digits  of  it  as  a  dainty 
lady  extends  her  lesser  fingers  when  she  lifts  her  cup,  or 
breaks  a  bit  of  bread.  It  was  a  delicate  suggestion  of 
exquisite  appreciation,  and  of  most  excellent  manners. 
Once  he  began  a  whine,  but  recollected  himself  and  sup 
pressed  it,  as  the  dainty  lady  might  a  yawn. 

Aunt  Blin  gave  him  two  oysters,  and  three  spoonfuls 
of  broth  in  his  own  saucer,  before  she  helped  herself. 
After  all,  she  ate  in  her  turn  very  little  more.  It  was 
hardly  worth  while  to  have  made  a  business  of  being 
comfortable. 

"  I  don't  think  they  have  such  good  oysters  as  they 
used  to,"  she  remarked,  stepping  over  her  s'es  in  a  very 
carpeted  and  stocking-footed  way. 

"  Perhaps  I  didn't  put  enough  seasoning  "  —  Bel  be 
gan,  but  was  interrupted  in  the  middle  of  her  reply. 

The  big  bell  two  squares  off  clanged  a  heavy  stroke, 
caught  up  on  the  echo  by  others  that  sounded  smaller, 
farther  and  farther  away,  making  their  irregular,  yet 
familiar  phrase  and  cadence  on  the  air. 

It  was  the  fire  alarm. 

"  H — zh  !  Hark  !  "  Aunt  Blin  changed  the  muffled 
but  eager  monosyllable  to  a  sharper  one  ;  and  being  re 
minded,  felt  in  her  lap,  under  her  napkin,  for  her  "  orna 
ments,"  as  Bel  called  them. 


298  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

But  she  counted  the  strokes  before  she  put  them  in, 
nodding  her  head,  and  holding  up  her  finger  to  Bel  and 
Bartholomew  for  silence.  Everything  stopped  where  it 
was  with  Miss  Bree  when  the  fire  alarm  sounded. 

One  —  two  —  three  —  four  —  five. 

u  In  the  city,"  said  Aunt  Blin,  with  a  certain  weird, 
unconscious  satisfaction  ;  and  whipped  the  porcelains  into 
their  places  before  the  second  tolling  should  begin.  They 
were  like  Pleasant  Riderhood's  back  hair  :  she  was  all 
twisted  up,  now,  and  ready. 

One  —  two. 

"  That  ain't  fur  off.  Down  Bedford  Street  way. 
Give  me  the  fire-book,  and  my  glasses." 

She  turned  the  folds  of  the  card  with  one  hand,  and 
adjusted  her  spectacles  with  the  other. 

"  Bedford  and  Lincoln.  Why,  that's  close  by  where 
Miss  Proddle  boards  !  " 

"  That's  the  box,  Auntie.  You  always  forget  the  fire 
isn't  in  the  box." 

"  Well,  it  will  be  if  they  don't  get  along  with  their 
steamers.  I  ain't  heard  one  go  by  yet." 

"  They  haven't  any  horses,  you  know." 

"  Hark  !  there's  one  now !  O,  do  hush  !  There's  the 
bell  again  !  " 

Bel  was  picking  up  the  tea-things  for  washing.  She 
set  down  the  little  pile  which  she  had  gathered,  went  to 
the  window,  and  drew  up  the  blind. 

"  My  gracious  !     And  there's  the  fire  !  " 

It  shone  up,  red,  into  the  sky,  from  over  the  tall  roofs. 

Ten  strokes  from  the  deep,  deliberate  bells. 

"  There  comes  Miss  Smalley,  todillating  up  to  see," 
said  Bel,  excitedly. 

"  And  the  people  are  just  rushing  along  Tremont 
Street !  " 


BOX   FIFTY-TWO.  299 

11  Can  you  see  ?  "  asked  Miss  Smalley,  bustling  in  like 
the  last  little  belated  hen  at  feeding-time,  with  a  look  on 
all  sides  at  once  to  discover  where  the  corn  might  be. 

"  Isn't  it  big,  0  ?  "  And  she  stood  up,  tiptoe,  by  the 
window,  as  if  that  would  make  any  comparative  differ 
ence  between  her  height  and  that  of  Hotel  Devereux, 
across  the  square  ;  or  as  if  she  could  reach  up  farther 
with  her  eyes  after  the  great  flashes  that  streamed  into 
the  heavens. 

Again  the  smiting  clang, — repeated,  solemn,  exact. 
No  flurry  in  those  measured  sounds,  although  their  con 
tinuance  tolled  out  a  city's  doom. 

Twice  twelve. 

"  There  goes  Mr.  Sparrow,"  said  the  music  mistress, 
as  the  watchmaker's  light,  unequal  hop  came  over  the 
stairs.  "  I  suppose  he  can  see  from  his  window  pretty 
near  where  it  is." 

A  slight,  dull  color  came  up  into  the  angles  of  the 
little  lady's  face,  as  she  alluded  to  the  upper  lodger's 
room,  for  there  was  a  tacit  impression  in  the  house  — 
and  she  knew  it  —  that  if  Miss  Smalley  and  Mr.  Sparrow 
had  been  thrown  together  earlier  in  life,  it  would  have 
been  very  suitable  ;  and  that  even  now  it  might  not  be 
altogether  too  late. 

Another  step  went  springing  down.  Bel  knew  that, 
but  she  said  nothing. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  might  go  out  to  the  end  of  the 
street  and  see  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Smalley. 

Bel  had  on  hat  and  waterproof  in  a  moment. 

"  Don't  you  stir,  Auntie,  to  catch  cold,  now  I  We'll  be 
back  directly." 

Miss  Smalley  was  already  in  her  room  below,  snatch 
ing  up  hood  and  shawl. 


300  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Down  the  Place  they  went,  and  on,  out  into  the  broad 
street.  Everybody  was  running  one  way,  —  northward. 
They  followed,  hurrying  toward  the  great  light,  glowing 
and  flashing  before  them. 

From  every  westward  avenue  came  more  men,  speed 
ing  in  ever  thickening  lines  verging  to  one  centre.  Like 
streams  into  a  river  channel,  they  poured  around  the 
corners  into  Essex  Street,  at  last,  filling  it  from  wall  to 
wall,  —  a  human  torrent. 

"  This  is  as  far  as  we  can  go,"  Miss  Smalley  said,  stop 
ping  in  one  of  the  doorways  of  Boylston  Market.  A  man 
in  a  blouse  stood  there,  ordering  the  driver  of  a  cart. 

"  Where  is  the  fire,  sir  ?  "  asked  Miss  Smalley,  with  a 
ladylike  air  of  not  being  used  to  speak  to  men  in  the 
street,  but  of  this  being  an  emergency. 

"  Corner  of  Kingston  and  Summer  ;  great  granite 
warehouse,  five  stories  high,"  said  the  man  in  the  blouse, 
civilly,  and  proceeding  to  finish  his  order,  which  was  his 
own  business  at  the  moment,  though  Boston  was  burn 
ing. 

The  two  women  turned  round  and  went  back.  The 
heavy  bells  were  striking  three  times  twelve. 

A  boy  rushed  past  them  at  the  corner  by  the  great 
florist's  shop.  He  was  going  the  other  way  from  the  fire, 
and  was  impatient  to  do  his  errand  and  get  back.  He 
had  a  basket  of  roses  to  carry  ;  ordered  for  some  one  to 
whom  it  would  come,  —  the  last  commission  of  that  sort 
done  that  night  perhaps,  —  as  out  of  the  very  smoke  and 
terror  of  the  hour  ;  a  singular  lovely  message  of  peace ; 
of  the  blessed  thoughts  that  live  between  human  hearts, 
though  a  world  were  in  ashes.  All  through  the  wild 
night,  those  exquisite  buds  would  be  silently  unfolding 
their  gracious  petals.  How  strange  the  bloomed-out  roses 
would  look  to-morrow ! 


BOX  FIFTY-TWO.  301 


All  the  house  in  Leicester  Place  was  astir,  and  reck 
lessly  mixed  up,  when  Miss  Smalley  and  Bel  Bree  came 
back.  The  landlady  and  her  servant  were  up  in  Mr. 
Sparrow's  room,  calling  to  Miss  Bree  below.  The  whole 
place  was  full  of  red  fierce  light. 

Aunt  Blin,  faithful  to  Bel's  parting  order,  stood  in  the 
spirit  of  an  unrelieved  sentinel,  though  the  whole  army 
had  broken  camp,  keeping  herself  steadfastly  safe,  in  her 
own  doorway.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a  draught  there, 
but  it  was  not  her  fault. 

"  I  must  go  up  and  see  it,"  she  said  eagerly,  when  Bel 
appeared.  Bel  drew  her  into  the  room,  put  her  first 
into  a  gray  hospital  dressing-gown,  then  into  a  water 
proof,  and  after  all  covered  her  up  with  a  striped  blue  and 
white  bed  comforter.  She  knew  she  would  keep  dodging 
in  and  out,  and  she  might  as  well  go  where  she  would  stay 
quiet. 

And  so  these  three  women  went  up-stairs,  where  they 
had  never  been  before.  The  door  of  Mr.  Hewland's  room 
was  open.  A  pair  of  slippers  lay  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  ;  a  newspaper  had  fluttered  into  a  light  heap,  like  a 
broken  roof,  beside  them;  a  dressing-gown  was  thrown 
over  the  back  of  a  chair. 

Bel  came  last,  and  shut  that  door  softly  as  she  passed, 
not  letting  her  eyes  intrude  beyond  the  first  involuntary 
glimpse.  She  was  maidenly  shy  of  the  place  she  had 
never  seen,  —  where  she  had  heard  the  footsteps  go  in 
and  out,  over  her  head. 

The  five  women  crowded  about  and  into  Mr.  Sparrow's 
little  dormer  window.     Miss  Smalley  lingered  to  notice" 
the  little  black  teapot  on  the  grate-bar,  where  a  low  fire 
was  sinking  lower, —  the  faded  cloth  on  the  table,  and  the 
empty  cup  upon  it,  —  the  pipe    laid  down  hastily,  with 


•302  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

ashes  falling  out  of  it.  She  thought  how  lonesome  Mr. 
Sparrow  was  living,  —  doing  for  himself. 

All  the  square  open  space  down  through  which  the  blue 
heavens  looked  between  those  great  towering  buildings, 
was  filled  with  brightness  as  with  a  flood.  The  air  was 
lurid  crimson.  Every  stone  and  chip  and  fragment,  lay 
revealed  in  the  strange,  transfiguring  light.  Away  across 
the  stable-roofs,  they  could  read  far-off  signs  painted  in 
black  letters  upon  brick  walls.  Church  spires  stood  up, 
bathed  in  a  wild  glory,  pointing  as  out  of  some  day  of 
doom,  into  the  everlasting  rest.  The  stars  showed  like 
points  of  clear,  green,  unearthly  radiance,  against  that 
contrast  of  fierce  red. 

It  surged  up  and  up,  as  if  it  would  over-boil  the  very 
stars  themselves.  It  swayed  to  right,  —  to  left ;  growing 
in  an  awful  bulk  and  intensity,  without  changing  much 
its  place,  to  their  eyes,  where  they  stood.  On  the  tops 
of  the  high  Apartment  Hotel,  and  all  the  flat-roofed 
houses  in  Hero  and  Pilgrim  streets,  were  men  and  women 
gazing.  Their  faces,  which  could  not  have  been  discerned 
in  the  daylight,  shone  distinct  in  this  preternatural  illumi 
nation.  Their  voices  sounded  now  and  then,  against  the 
yet  distant  hum  and  crackle  of  the  conflagration,  upon 
the  otherwise  still  air.  The  rush  had,  for  a  while,  gone 
by.  The  streets  in  this  quarter  were  empty. 

Grand  and  terrible  as  the  sight  was  to  them  in  Leices 
ter  Place,  they  could  know  or  imagine  little  of  what  the 
fire  was  really  doing. 

"  It  backs  against  the  wind,"  they  heard  one  man  say 
upon  the  stable-roof. 

They  could  not  resist  opening  the  window,  just  a  little, 
now  and  then,  to  listen  ;  though  Bel  would  instantly  pull 
Aunt  Blin  away,  and  then  they  would  put  it  down.  Poor 


BOX   FIFTY-TWO.  303 

Aunt  Blin's  nose  grew  very  cold,  though  she  did  not  know 
it.  Her  nose  was  little  and  sensitive.  It  is  not  the  big 
noses  that  feel  the  cold  the  most.  Aunt  Blin  took  cold 
through  her  face  and  her  feet ;  and  these  the  dressing- 
gown,  and  the  waterproof,  and  the  comforter,  did  not 
protect. 

"  It  must  have  spread  among  those  crowded  houses  in 
Kingston  and  South  streets,"  Aunt  Blin  said  ;  and  as  she 
spoke,  her  poor  old  "  ornaments  "  chattered. 

"  Aunt  Blin,  you  shall  come  down,  and  take  something 
hot,  and  go  to  bed  !  "  exclaimed  Bel,  peremptorily.  "  We 
can't  stay  here  all  night.  Mr.  Sparrow  will  be  back,  — 
and  everybody.  I  think  the  fire  is  going  down.  It's 
pretty  still  now.  We've  seen  it  all.  Come  !  " 

They  had  never  a  thought,  any  of  them,  of  more  than 
a  block  or  so,  burning.  Of  course  the  firemen  would  put 
it  out.  They  always  did. 

"  See  !  See  !"  cried  the  landlady.  "  O  my  sakes  and 
sorrows !  " 

A  huge,  volcanic  column  of  glittering  sparks  —  of  great 
flaming  fragments  —  shot  up  and  soared  broad  and  terri 
ble  into  the  deep  sky.  A  long,  magnificent,  shimmering, 
scintillant  train  —  fire  spangled  with  fire  —  swept  south 
ward  like  the  tail  of  a  comet,  that  had  at  last  swooped 
down  and  wrapped  the  earth. 

"  The  roofs  have  fallen  in,"  said  innocent  old  Miss 
Smalley. 

"  That  will  be  the  last.  Now  they  will  stop  it,"  said 
Bel.  "  Come,  Auntie  !  " 

And  after  midnight,  for  an  hour  or  more,  the  house, 
with  the  five  women  in  it,  hushed.  Aunt  Blin  took  some 
hot  Jamaica  ginger,  and  Bel  filled  a  jug  with  boiling  water, 
wrapped  it  in  flannel,  and  tucked  it  into  the  bed  at  her 


304  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

feet.  Then  she  gave  her  a  spoonful  of  her  cough-mixture, 
took  off  her  own  clothes,  and  lay  down. 

Still  the  great  fire  roared,  and  put  out  the  stars.  Still 
the'  room  was  red  with  the  light  of  it.  Aunt  Blin  fell 
asleep. 

Bel  lay  and  listened,  and  wondered.  She  would  not 
move  to  get  up  and  look  again,  lest  she  should  rouse  her 
aunt.  Suddenly,  she  heard  the  boom  of  a  great  explosion. 
She  started  up. 

Miss  Smalley's  voice  sounded  at  the  door. 

"  It's  awful !  "  she  whispered,  through  the  keyhole,  in 
a  ghostly  way.  "  I  thought  you  ought  to  know.  The 
cinders  are  flying  everywhere.  I  heard  an  engine  come 
up  from  the  railroad.  People  are  running  along  the 
streets,  and  teams  are  going,  and  everything,  —  the  other 
way  !  They're  blowing  up  houses  !  There,  don't  you  hear 
that?" 

It  was  another  sullen,  heavy  roar. 

Bel  sprang  out  of  bed  ;  hurried  into  her  garments  ; 
opened  the  door  to  Miss  Smalley.  They  went  and  stood 
together  in  the  entry- window. 

"  All  Kingman's  carriages  are  out ;  sick  horses  and  all ; 
they've  trundled  wheelbarrow  loads  of  things  down  to 
the  stable.  There's  a  heap  of  furniture  dumped  down  in 
the  middle  of  the  place.  Women  are  going  up  Tremont 
Street  with  bundles  and  little  children.  Where  do  you 
s'pose  it's  got  to  ?  " 

"  See  there  !  "  said  Bel,  pointing  across  the  square  to 
the  great,  dark,  public  building.  High  up,  in  one  of  the 
windows,  a  gas-light  glimmered.  Two  men  were  visible 
in  the  otherwise  deserted  place.  They  were  putting  up  a 
step-ladder. 

"Do  you  suppose  they  are  there  nights, — other 
nights  ?  "  Bel  asked  Miss  Smalley. 


BOX    FIFTY-TWO.  805 

"  No.  They're  after  books  and  things.  They're  going 
to  pack  up." 

"  The  fire  can't  be  coming  here  !  " 

Bel  opened  the  window  carefully,  as  she  spoke.  A 
man  was  standing  in  the  livery-stable  door.  A  hack 
came  rapidly  down,  and.  the  driver  called  out  something 
as  he  jumped  off. 

"  Where  ?  "  they  heard  the  hostler  ask. 

"  Most  up  to  Temple  Place." 

"  Do  they  mean  the  fire  ?     They  can't  I  " 

They  did  ;  but  they  were,  as  we  know,  somewhat  mis 
taken.  Yet  that  great,  surf-like  flame,  rushing  up  and 
on,  was  rioting  at  the  very  head  of  Summer  Street,  and 
plunging  down  Washington.  Trinity  Church  was  al 
ready  a  blazing  wreck. 

"  Has  it  come  up  Summer  Street,  or  how?"  asked  Bel, 
helplessly,  of  helpless  Miss  Smalley.  "  Do  you  suppose 
Fillmer  &  Bylles  is  burnt  ?  " 

"  I  must  ask  somebody !  " 

These  women,  with  no  man  belonging  to  them  to  come 
and  give  them  news,  —  restrained  by  force  of  habit  from 
what  would  have  been  at  another  time  strange  to  do,  and 
not  knowing  even  yet  the  utter  exceptionality  of  this 
time,  —  while  down  among  the  hissing  engines  and  be 
fore  the  face  of  the  conflagration  stood  grrls  in  delicate 
dress  under  evening  wraps,  come  from  gay  visits  with 
brothers  and  friends,  and  drawn  irresistibly  by  the  grand, 
awful  magnetism  of  the  spectacle,  —  while  up  on  the 
aristocratic  avenues,  along  Arlington  Street,  whose  win 
dows  flashed  like  jewels  in  the  far-shining  flames,  where 
the  wonderful  bronze  Washington  sat  majestic  and  still 
against  that  sky  of  stormy  fire  as  he  sits  in  every  change 
and  beautiful  surprise  of  whatever  sky  of  cloud  or  color 


306  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

may  stretch  about  him,  —  on  Commonwealth  Avenue, 
where  splendid  mansions  stood  with  doors  wide  open,  and 
drays  unloading  merchandise  saved  from  the  falling  ware 
houses  into  their  freely  offered  shelter,  —  ladies  were 
walking  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  their  own  halls  and  parlors, 
watching,  and  questioning  whomsoever  came,  and  saying 
to  each  other  hushed  and  solemn  or  excited  words,  — 
when  the  whole  city  was  but  one  great  home  upon  which 
had  fallen  a  mighty  agony  and  wonder  that  drove  its 
hearts  to  each  other  as  the  hearts  of  a  household,  — these 
two,  Bel  Bree  and  little  Miss  Smalley,  knew  scarcely 
anything  that  was  definite,  and  had  been  waiting  and 
wondering  all  night,  thinking  it  would  be  improper  to 
talk  into  the  street ! 

A  young  lad  came  up  the  court  at  last ;  he  lived  next 
door ;  he  was  an  errand-boy  in  some  great  store  on 
Franklin  Street.  His  mother  spoke  to  him  from  hei 
window. 

"  Bennie  !  how  is  it  ?  " 

"  Mother  !  All  Boston  is  gone  up  !  Summer  Street. 
High  Street,  Federal  Street,  Pearl  Street,  Franklin 
Street,  Milk  Street,  Devonshire  Street,  —  everything:, 
clear  through  to  the  New  Post  Office.  I've  been  on  the 
Common  all  night,  guarding  goods.  There's  anothei 
fellow  there  now,  and  I've  come  home  to  get  warm.  I'm 
almost  frozen." 

His  mother  was  at  the  door  as  he  finished  speaking, 
and  took  him  in ;  and  they  heard  no  more. 

The  boy's  words  were  heavy  with  heavy  meaning.  Ho 
said  them  without  any  boy-excitement ;  they  carried  theii 
own  excitement  in  the  heart  of  them.  In  those  eight 
hours  he  had  lived  like  a  man  ;  in  an  experience  thai 
until  of  late  few  men  have  known. 


BOX    FIFTY-TWO.  307 

They  did  not  know  how  long  they  stood  there  after 
that,  with  scarcely  a  word  to  each  other,  —  only  now  and 
then  some  utterance  of  sudden  recollection  of  this  and 
that  which  must  have  vanished  away  within  that  stricken 
territory,  —  taking  in,  slowly,  the  reality,  the  tremen- 
dousness  of  what  had  happened,  —  was  happening. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  Mr.  Hewland  came  in,  and  up 
the  stairs,  and  found  them  there.  Aunt  Blin  had  not 
awaked.  There  was  a  trace  of  morphine  in  her  cough- 
drops,  and  Bel  knew  now,  since  she  had  slept  so  long, 
that  she  would  doubtless  sleep  late  into  the  morning. 
That  was  well.  It  would  be  time  enough  to  tell  her  by 
and  by.  There  would  be  all  day,  —  all  winter,  —  to  tell 
it  in. 

Mr.  Hewland  told  them,  hastily,  the  main  history  of 
the  fire. 

"  Is  Trinity  Church  ?  "  —  asked  poor  Miss  Smalley, 
tremblingly. 

She  had  not  said  anything  about  it  to  Bel  Bree ;  she 
CL  "!d  not  think  of  that  great  stone  tower  as  having  let 
the  fire  in,  —  as  not  having  stood,  cool  and  strong,  against 
any  flame.  And  Trinity  Church  was  her  tower.  She 
had  sat  in  one  seat  in  its  free  gallery  for  fourteen  years. 
If  that  were  gone,  she  would  hardly  know  where  to  go, 
to  get  near  to  heaven.  Only  nine  days  ago,  —  All  Saints' 
Day,  —  she  had  sat  there  .listening  to  beautiful  words 
that  laid  hold  upon  the  faith  of  all  believers,  back  through 
the  church,  back  before  Christ  to  the  prophets  and  patri 
archs,  and  told  how  God  was  her  God  because  He  had 
been  theirs.  The  old  faith,  —  and  the  Old  Church ! 
"  Was  Trinity  ?  "  -  She  could  not  say,  —  "  burned." 

But  Mr.  Hewland  answered  in  one  word,  —  "  Gone." 

That  word  answered  so  many  questions  on  which  life 
and  love  hung,  that  fearful  night ! 


808  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Mr.  Hewland  was  wet  and  cold.  He  went  up  to  his 
room  and  changed  his  clothing.  When  the  daylight, 
pale  and  scared,  was  creeping  in,  he  came  down  again. 

"Would  you  not  like  to  go  down  and  see  ?  "  he  said  to 
Bel. 

"  Can  I  ?  " 

"  Yes.  There  is  no  danger.  The  streets  are  compar 
atively  clear.  I  will  go  with  you." 

Bel  asked  Miss  Smalley. 

"  Will  you  come  ?  Auntie  will  be  sure  to  sleep,  I 
think." 

Miss  Smalley  had  scarcely  heart  either  to  go  or  stay. 
Of  the  two,  it  was  easier  to  go.  To  do  —  to  see  —  some 
thing. 

Mr.  Sparrow  came  in.  He  met  them  at  the  door,  and 
turned  directly  back  with  them. 

He,  too,  was  a  free-seat  worshipper  at  Old  Trinity. 
He  and  the  music-mistress  —  they  were  both  of  English 
birth,  hence  of  the  same  national  faith  —  had  been  used 
to  go  from  the  same  dwelling,  separately,  to  the  same 
house  of  worship,  and  sit  in  opposite  galleries.  But  their 
hearts  had  gone  up  together  in  the  holy  old  words  that 
their  lips  breathed  in  the  murmur  of  the  congregation. 
These  links  between  the;m,  of  country  and  religion,  which 
they  had  never  spoken  of,  were  the  real  links. 

As  they  went  forth  this  Sunday  morning,  in  company 
for  the  first  time,  toward  the  church  in  which  they  should 
never  kneel  again,  they  felt  another,  —  the  link  that  Eve 
and  Adam  felt  when  the  sword  of  flame  swept  Paradise. 

Plain  old  souls  !  —  Plain  old  bodies,  I  mean,  hopping 
and  "  +odillating  "  —  as  Bel  expressed  the  little  spinster's 
gait —  along  together  ;  their  souls  walked  in  a  sweet  and 
gracious  reality  before  the  sight  of  God, 


BOX  FIFTY-TWO.  809 

Bel  and  Mr.  Hewland  were  beside  each  other.  They 
had  never  walked  together  before,  of  course ;  but  they 
hardly  thought  of  the  unusualness.  The  time  broke  down 
distinctions ;  nothing  looked  strange,  when  everything 
was  so. 

They  went  along  by  the  Common  fence.  In  the  street, 
a  continuous  line  of  wagons  passed  them,  moving  south 
ward.  Gentlemen  sat  on  cart-fronts  beside  the  team 
sters,  accompanying  their  fragments  of  property  to  places 
of  bestowal.  Inside  the  inclosure,  in  the  malls,  along 
under  the  trees,  upon  the  grass,  away  back  to  the  pond, 
were  heaps  of  merchandise.  Boxes,  bales,  hastily  col 
lected  and  unpacked  goods  of  all  kinds,  from  carpets  to 
cotton-spools,  were  thrown  in  piles,  which  men  and  boys 
were  guarding,  the  police  passing  to  and  fro  among  them 
all.  People  were  wrapped  against  the  keen  November 
cold,  in  whatsoever  they  could  lay  their  hands  on.  A 
group  of  men  pacing  back  and  forth  before  a  pyramid  of 
cases,  had  thrown  great  soft  white  blankets  about  their 
shoulders,  whose  bright  striped  borders  hung  fantastically 
about  them,  and  whose  corners  fell  and  dragged  upon  the 
muddy  ground. 

Down  by  Park  Street  corner,  and  at  Winter  Street, 
black  columns  of  coal  smoke  went  up  from  the  steamers  ; 
the  hose,  like  monstrous  serpents,  twisted  and  trailed 
along  the  pavements  ;  water  stood  in  pools  and  flowed  in 
runnels,  everywhere. 

They  went  down  Winter  Street,  stepping  over  the 
hose-coils,  and  across  the  leaking  streams ;  they  came  to 
the  crossing  of  Washington,  where  yesterday  throngs  of 
women  passed,  shopping  from  stately  store  to  store. 

Beyond,  were  smoke  and  ruin  ;  swaying  walls,  heaps 
of  fallen  masonry,  chevaux-de-frises  of  bristling  gas  and 


310  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

water-pipes,  broken  and  protruding.  A  little  way  down, 
to  the  left,  sheets  of  flame,  golden  in  the  gray  daylight, 
were  pouring  from  the  face  of  the  beautiful  "Transcript" 
building. 

They  stood,  fearful  and  watchful,  under  the  broken 
granite  walls  opposite  Trinity  Church. 

Windows  and  doors  were  gone  from  the  grand  old 
edifice  ;  inside,  the  fire  was  shining  ;  devouring  at  its 
dreadful  ease,  the  sacred  architecture  and  furnishings 
that  it  had  swept  down  to  the  ground. 

"  See  !  There  he  is  !  "  whispered  Miss  Smalley  to  Mr. 
Sparrow,  as  she  gazed  with  unconscious  tears  falling  fast 
down  her  pale  old  cheeks. 

It  was  the  Rector  of  Trinity,  who  thought  to  have 
stood  this  morning  in  the  holy  place  to  speak  to  his 
people.  Down  the  middle  of  the  street  he  came,  and 
went  up  to  the  cumbered  threshold  and  the  open  arch, 
within  which  a  terrible  angel  was  speaking  in  his  stead. 

"Do  you  think  he  remembers  now,  what  he  said  about 
the  God  of  Daniel,  as  he  looks  into  the  blazing  fiery 
furnace  ? " 

"  I  dare  say  he  doesn't  ever  remember  what  he  said  ; 
but  he  remembers  always  what  is,"  answered  the  watch 
maker. 


DO  YOU  THINK  HE  REMEMBERS   NOW?" 


T 


EVENING   AND  MORNING:   THE   SECOND  DAY. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

EVENING   AND  MORNING  :   THE   SECOND   DAY. 

I  HE  strange,  sad  Sunday  wore  along. 

The  teams  rolled  on,  incessantly,  through  the 
streets  ;  the  blaze  and  smoke  went  up  from  the  sixty 
acres  of  destruction  ;  friends  gathered  together  and  talked 
of  the  one  thing,  that  talk  as  they  might,  would  not  be 
put  into  any  words.  Men  whose  wealth  had  turned  to 
ashes  in  a  night  went  to  and  fro  in  the  same  coats  they 
had  worn  yesterday,  and  hardly  knew  yet  whether  they 
themselves  were  the  same  or  not.  It  seemed,  so  strangely, 
as  if  the  clock  might  be  set  back  somehow,  and  yesterday 
be  again  ;  it  was  so  little  way  off  ! 

Women  who  had  received,  perhaps,  their  last  wages 
for  the  winter  on  Saturday  night,  sat  in  their  rooms  and 
wondered  what  would  be  on  Monday. 

Aunt  Blin  was  excited  ;  strong  with  excitement.  She 
went  down-stairs  to  see  Miss  Smalley,  who  was  too  tired 
to  sit  up. 

Out  of  the  fire,  Bel  Bree  and  Paulina  Smalley  had 
each  brought  something  that  remained  by  them  secretly 
all  this  day. 

When  they  had  stopped  there  under  those  smoked  and 
shattered  walls,  and  Morris  Hewland  had  drawn  Bel's 
hand  within  his  arm  to  keep  her  from  any  movement  into 
danger,  he  had  gently  laid  his  own  fingers,  in  cave  and 
caution,  upon  hers.  A  feeling  had  come  to  them  both 
with  the  act,  and  for  a  moment,  as  if  the  world,  with  all 
its  great  built-up  barriers  of  stone,  had  broken  down 


312  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

around  them,  and  lay  at  their  feet  in  fragments,  amc  /g 
which  they  two  stood  free  together. 

The  music-mistress  and  the  watchmaker,  looking  in 
upon  their  place  of  prayer,  seeing  it  empty  and  eaten  out 
by  the  yet  lingering  tongues  of  fire,  had  exchanged  those 
words  about  the  things  that  are.  For  a  minute,  through 
the  emptiness,  they  reached  into  the  eternal  deep  ;  for  a 
minute  their  simple  souls  felt  themselves,  over  the  thresh 
old  of  earthly  ruin,  in  the  spaces  where  there  is  no  need 
of  a  temple  any  more  ;  they  forgot  their  worn  and  far- 
spent  lives,  —  each  other's  old  and  year-marked  faces  ; 
they  were  as  two  spirits,  met  without  hindrance  or  incon 
gruity,  looking  into  each  other's  spiritual  eyes. 

Poor  old  Miss  Smalley,  when  she  came  home  and  took 
off  her  hood  before  her  little  glass,  and  saw  how  pale  she 
was  with  her  night's  watching  and  excitement,  and  how 
the  thin  gray  hairs  had  straggled  over  her  forehead,  came 
back  with  a  pang  into  the  flesh,  and  was  afraid  she  had 
been  ridiculous  ;  but  lying  tired  upon  her  bed,  in  the 
long  after  hours  of  the  day,  she  forgot  once  more  what 
manner  of  outside  woman  she  was,  and  remembered  only, 
with  a  pervading  peace,  how  the  watchmaker  had  spoken. 

Night  came.  The  pillar  of  smoke  that  had  gone  up  all 
day,  turned  again  into  a  pillar  of  fire,  and  stood  in  the 
eastern  heavens. 

The  time  of  safety,  when  there  had  been  no  flaming 
terror,  was  already  so  far  off,  that  people,  fearing  this 
night  to  surrender  themselves  to  sleep,  wondered  that  in 
any  nights  they  had  ever  dared,  —  wondered  that  there 
had  ever  been  anything  but  fear  and  burning,  in  this 
great,  crowded  city. 

The  guards  paced  the  streets ;  the  roll  of  wagons 
quieted.  The  stricken  town  was  like  a  fever  patient, 


EVENING   AND   MORNING  :    THE   SECOND   DAY.  313 

seized  yesterday  with  a  sudden,  devouring  rage  of  agony, 
—  to-day,  calmed,  put  under  care,  a  rule  established, 
watchers  set. 

Miss  Smalley  went  from  window  to  window  as 
the  darkness  —  and  the  apparition  of  flame  —  came  on. 
Rested  by  the  day's  surrender  to  exhaustion,  she  was 
alert  and  apprehensive  and  excited  now. 

"  It  will  be  sure  to  burst  out  again,"  she  said  ;  "  it 
always  does/' 

"  Don't  say  so  to  Aunt  Blin,"  whispered  Bel.  "  Look 
at  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes.  She  is  sick-abed  this  min 
ute,  and  she  will  keep  up  !  " 

At  nine  o'clock,  the  very  last  thing,  she  spoke  with  the 
music-mistress  again,  at  the  door.  Miss  Smalley  kept 
coming  up  into  the  passage  to  look  out  at  that  end  win 
dow. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  get  up  if  it  does  burn,"  Bel  said, 
resolutely.  "  It  won't  come  here.  We  ought  to  sleep. 
That's  our  business.  There'll  be  enough  to  do,  maybe, 
afterwards." 

But  for  all  that,  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  she  was 
roused  again. 

A  sound  of  bells ;  a  long  alarm  of  which  she  lost  the 
count ;  a  great  explosion.  Then  that  horrible  cataract  of 
flame  and  sparks  overhanging  the  stars  as  it  did  before, 
and  paling  them  out. 

It  seemed  as  if  it  had  always  been  so  ;  as  if  there  had 
never  been  a  still,  dark  heaven  under  which  to  lie  down 
tranquilly  and  sleep. 

"  The  wind  has  changed,  and  the  fire  is  awful,  and  I 
can't  help  it,"  sounded  Miss  Smalley 's  voice,  meek  and 
deprecating,  through  the  keyhole,  at  which  she  had 
listened  till  she  had  heard  Bel  moving. 


314  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

Bel  lit  the  gas,  and  then  went  out  into  the  passage. 

Flakes  of  lire  were  coming  down  over  the  roofs  into 
the  Place  itself. 

The  great  rush  and  blaze  were  all  this  way,  now. 
They  were  right  under  the  storm  of  it. 

Aunt  Blin  woke  up. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  excitedly.  "  Is  it  begun 
again  ?  Is  it  coming  ?  "  And  before  Bel  could  stop  her, 
she  was  out  on  the  entry  floor  with  her  bare  feet. 

A  floating  cinder  fell  and  struck  the  sash. 

"  We  must  be  dressed  !  We  must  pack  up  !  Make 
haste,  Bel !  Where's  Bartholomew  ?  " 

Making  a  movement,  hurriedly,  to  go  back  across  her 
own  room,  Miss  Bree  turned  faint  and  giddy,  and  fell 
headlong. 

They  got  her  into  bed  again,  and  brought  her  to.  But 
with  circulation  and  consciousness,  came  the  rush  of  fever. 
In  half  an  hour  she  was  in  a  burning  heat,  wandering 
and  crying  out  deliriously. 

"  O,  what  shall  we  do  ?  We  must  have  a  doctor  I 
She'U  die  !  "  cried  Bel. 

"  If  I  dared  to  go  up  and  call  Mr.  Sparrow  ?  ?'  said  the 
spinster,  timidly. 

Her  thought  reverted  as  instantly  to  Mr.  Sparrow,  and 
yet  with  the  same  conscious  shyness,  as  if  she  had  been 
eighteen,  and  the  poor  old  watchmaker  twenty-one.  Be 
cause,  you  see,  she  was  a  woman  ;  and  she  had  but  been 
a  woman  the  longer,  and  her  woman's  heart  grown  ten 
derer  and  shyer,  in  its  unlived  life,  that  she  was  four  and 
fifty,  and  not  eighteen.  There  are  three  times  eighteen 
in  four  and  fifty. 

"  O,  Mr.  Sparrow  isn't  any  good  !  "  cried  Bel,  impetu 
ously.  "  If  you  wouldn't  mind  seeing  whether  Mr.  Hew- 
land  is  up-stairs  ?  " 


EVENING  AND  MORNING:  THE  SECOND  DAY.        815 

Miss  Smalley  did  not  mind  that  at  all ;  and  though 
humbly  aggrieved  at  the  reflection  upon  Mr.  Sparrow, 
went  up  and  knocked. 

Bel  heard  Morris  Hewland's  spring  upon  the  floor,  and 
his  voice,  as  he  asked  the  matter.  Heavy  with  fatigue, 
he  had  not  roused  till  now. 

As  he  came  down,  five  minutes  later,  and  Bel  Bree 
met  him  at  the  door,  the  gas  suddenly  went  out,  and 
they  stood,  except  for  the  flame  outside,  in  darkness. 

In  house  and  street  it  was  the  same.  Miss  Smalley 
called  out  that  it  was  so.  "  The  stable  light  is  gone," 
she  said.  u  Yes,  —  and  the  lights  down  Tremont 
Street." 

Then  that  fearful  robe  of  fire,  thick  sown  with  spang 
ling  cinders,  seemed  sweeping  against  the  window  panes. 

Only  that  terrible  light  over  all  the  town. 

"  O,  what  does  it  mean  ?  "  said  Bell. 

"It  is  Chicago  over  again,"  the  young  man  answered 
her,  with  a  grave  dismay  in  his  voice. 

"  See  there,  —  and  there  !  "  said  Miss  Smalley,  at  the 
window.  "  People  are  up,  lighting  candles." 

"  But  Aunt  Blin  is  sick  !  "  said  Bel.  "  We  must  take 
care  of  her.  What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  I'll  go  and  send  a  doctor ;  and  I'll  bring  you  news. 
Have  you  a  candle  ?  Stop  ;  I'll  fetch  you  something." 

He  sprang  up-stairs,  and  returned  with  a  box  of  small 
wax  tapers.  They  were  only  a  couple  of  inches  long, 
and  the  size  of  her  little  finger. 

"  I'll  get  you  something  better  if  I  can  ;  and  don't  be 
frightened." 

The  great  glare,  though  it  shed  its  light  luridly  upon 
all  outside,  was  not  enough  to  find  things  by  within. 
Bel  took  courage  at  this,  thinking  the  heart  of  it  must 


316  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

still  be  far  off.  She  gave  one  look  into  the  depth  of  the 
street,  shadowed  by  its  buildings,  and  having  a  strange 
look  of  eerie  gloom,  even  so  little  way  beneath  that  upper 
glow.  Then  she  drew  down  the  painted  shades,  and 
shut  the  sky  phantom  out. 

"  Mr.  Hewland  will  come  and  tell  us,"  she  said.  "  We 
must  work." 

She  heated  water  and  got  a  bath  for  Aunt  Blin's  feet. 
She  put  a  cool,  wet  bandage  on  her  head.  She  mixed 
some  mustard  and  spread  a  cloth  and  laid  it  to  her  chest. 
Miss  Bree  breathed  easier  ;  but  the  bandage  upon  her 
head  dried  as  though  the  flame  had  touched  it. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  good,  inopportune  Miss 
Smalley ;  "  she's  going  to  be  dreadful  sick,  I'm  afraid. 
It'll  be  head  and  lungs  both.  That's  what  my  sister 
had." 

"  Don't  tell  me  what !  "  cried  Bel,  irritatedly. 

But  the  doctor  told  her  what,  when  he  came. 

Not  in  words  ;  doctors  don't  do  that.  But  she  read  it 
in  his  grave  carefulness ;  she  detected  it  in  the  orders 
which  he  gave.  People  brought  up  in  the  country, — 
where  neighbors  take  care  of  each  other,  and  where  every 
symptom  is  talked  over,  and  the  history  of  every  fatal 
disorder  turns  into  a  tradition, — learn  about  sickness 
and  the  meanings  of  it ;  on  its  ghastly  and  ominous  side, 
at  any  rate. 

Mr.  Hewland  came  back  and  brought  two  candles, 
which  he  had  with  difficulty  procured  from  a  hotel.  He 
brought  word,  also,  that  the  fire  was  under  control ;  that 
they  need  feel  no  more  alarm. 

And  so  this  second  night  of  peril  and  disaster  passed 
painfully  and  slowly  by. 

But  on  the  Monday,  the  day  in  which  Boston  was  like 


EVENING   AND   MORNING  :    THE   SECOND   DAY.  31.7 

a  city  given  over  into  the  hands  of  a  host,  —  when  its 
streets  were  like  slow-moving  human  glaciers,  down  the 
midst  of  which  in  a  narrow  channel  the  heavier  flow  of 
burdened  teams  passed  scarcely  faster  forward  than  the 
hindered  side  streams,  —  Aunt  Blin  lay  in  the  grasp  and 
scorch  of  a  fire  that  feeds  on  life  ;  wasting  under  that 
which  uplifts  and  frenzies,  only  to  prostrate  and  destroy. 

1  shall  not  dwell  upon  it.  It  had  to  be  told  ;  the  fire 
also  had  to  be  told  ;  for  it  happened,  and  could  not  be 
ignored.  It  -happened,  intermingling  with  all  these  very 
things  of  which  I  write  ;  precipitating,  changing,  deter 
mining  much. 

Before  the  end  of  that  first  week,  in  which  the  stun 
and  shock  were  reacting  in  prompt,  cheerful,  benevolent 
organizing  and  providing,  —  in  which,  through  wonderful, 
dreamlike  ruins,  like  the  ruins  of  the  far-off  past,  people 
were  wandering,  amazed,  seeing  a  sudden  torch  laid  right 
upon  the  heart  and  centre  of  a  living  metropolis  and 
turning  it  to  a  shadow  and  a  decay,  —  in  which  human 
interests  and  experiences  came  to  mingle  that  had  never 
consciously  approached  each  other  before,  —  in  which  the 
little  household  of  independent  existences  in  Leicester 
Place  was  fused  into  an  almost  family  relation  all  at  once, 
after  years  of  mere  juxtaposition,  —  before  the  end  of 
that  week,  Aunt  Blin  died. 

It  was  as  though  the  fiery  thrust  that  had  transpierced 
the  heart  of  "  her  Boston."  had  smitten  the  centre  of  her 
own  vitality  in  the  self-same  hour. 

All  her  clothes  hung  in  the  closet ;  the  very  bend  of 
her  arm  was  in  the  sleeve  of  the  well  worn  alpaca  dress ; 
the  work-basket,  with  a  cloth  jacket-front  upon  it,  in 
which  was  a  half -made  button-hole,  left  just  at  the  stitch 


318  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

where  all  her  labor  ended,  was  on  the  round  table ; 
Cheeps  was  singing  in  the  window  ;  Bartholomew  was 
winking  on  the  hearth-rug  ;  and  little  Bel,  among  these 
belongings  that  she  knew  not  what  to  do  with  any  more, 
was  all  alone. 


TEMPTATION.  319 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

TEMPTATION. 

HHHE  Relief  Committee  was  organizing  in  Park  Street 
-*-  Vestry. 

Women  with  help  in  their  hands  and  sympathy  in 
their  hearts,  came  there  to  meet  women  who  wanted 
both  ;  came,  many  of  them,  straight  from  the  first  knowl 
edge  of  the  loss  of  almost  all  their  own  money,  with 
word  and  act  of  fellowship  ready  for  those  upon  whose 
very  life  the  blow  fell  yet  closer  and  harder.  Over  the 
separating  lines  of  class  and  occupation  a  divine  impulse 
reached,  at  least  for  the  moment,  both  ways. 

"  Boffin's  Bower  "  was  all  alert  with  aggressive,  inde 
pendent  movement.  Here,  they  did  not  believe  in  the 
divine  impulse  of  the  hour.  They  would  stay  on  their 
own  side  of  the  line.  They  would  help  themselves  and 
each  other.  They  would  stand  by  their  own  class,  and 
cry  "  hands  off  !  "  to  the  rich  women. 

What  was  to  be  done,  for  lasting  understanding  and 
true  relation,  between  these  conflicting,  yet  mutually  de 
pendent  elements  ? 

In  their  own  separate  places  sat  solitary  girls  and 
women  who  sought  neither  yet. 

Bel  Bree  was  one. 

The  little  room  which  had  been  home  while  Aunt  Blin 
lived  there  with  her,  was  suddenly  become  only  a  dreary, 
lonely  lodging-room.  Cheeps  and  Bartholomew  were 
there,  chirping  and  purring  ;  the  sun  was  shining  in ;  the 
things  were  all  hers,  for  Aunt  Blin  had  written  one 


320  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

broad,  straggling,  unsteady  line  upon  a  sheet  of  paper 
the  last  day  she  lived,  when  the  fever  and  confusion  had 
ebbed  away  out  of  her  brain  as  life  ebbed  slowly  back, 
beaten  from  its  outworks  by  disease,  toward  her  heart, 
and  she  lay  feebly,  but  clearly,  conscious. 

"  I  give  all  I  leave  hi  the  world  to  my  niece  Belinda 
Bree." 

"  Kellup "  came  down  and  buried  his  sister,  and 
"  looked  into  things ; "  concluded  that  "  Bel  was  pretty 
comfortable,  and  with  good  folks,  —  Mrs.  Pimminy  and 
Miss  Smalley  ;  'sposed  she  calc'lated  to  keep  on,  now ; 
she  could  come  back  if  she  wanted  to,  though." 

Bel  did  not  want  to.  She  would  stay  here  a  little 
while,  at  any  rate,  and  think.  So  Kellup  went  back  into 
New  Hampshire. 

There  was  a  little  money  laid  up  since  Miss  Bree  and 
Bel  had  been  together  ;  Bel  could  get  along,  she  thought, 
till  work  began  again.  But  it  was  no  longer  living ;  it 
would  not  be  living  then  ;  it  would  be  only  work  and 
solitude.  She  was  like  a  great  many  others  of  them 
now  ;  girls  without  tie  or  belonging,  —  holding  on  where 
they  could.  Elise  Mokey  had  said  to  her,  —  "  See  if  you 
could  help  yourself  if  you  hadn't  Aunt  Blin  !  "  and  now 
she  began  to  look  forward  against  that  great,  dark  "  If." 

Everything  had  come  together.  If  work  had  kept  on, 
there  would  have  been  these  little  savings  to  fall  back 
upon  when  earnings  did  not  quite  meet  outlay.  But  now 
she  should  use  them  up  before  work  came.  And  what 
did  it  signify,  anyhow?  All  the  comfort — all  the 
meaning  of  it  —  was  gone. 

They  were  all  kind  to  her  ;  Miss  Smalley  sat  with  her, 
evenings,  till  Bel  wished  she  would  have  the  wiser  kind 
ness  to  go  away  and  let  her  be  miserable,  just  a  little 
while. 


TEMPTATION.  321 

Morris  Hewland  knocked  at  the  door  one  afternoon 
when  the  music-mistress  was  out,  giving  her  lessons. 

Bel  did  not  ask  him  in  to  sit  down  ;  she  stood  just 
within  the  doorway,  and  talked  with  him. 

He  made  some  friendly  inquiries  that  led  to  conversa 
tion  ;  he  drew  her  to  say  something  of  her  plans.  He 
had  not  come  on  purpose ;  he  hardly  knew  what  he  had 
come  for.  He  had  only  knocked  to  say  a  word  of  kind 
ness  ;  to  look  in  the  poor,  pretty  little  face  that  he  felt 
such  a  tenderness  for. 

"I  can't  bear  to  give  things  up, — because  they  were 
pleasant,"  Bel  said.  "  But  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  go 
away.  It  isn't  home  ;  there  isn't  anybody  to  make  home 
with  any  more.  I  know  what  I  had  thought  of,  a  while 
ago  ;  I  believe  I  know  what  there  is  that  I  might  do  ;  I 
am  just  waiting  until  the  thoughts  come  back,  and  begin 
to  look  as  they  did.  Nothing  looks  as  it  did  yet." 

"  Nothing  ?  "  asked  Morris  Hewland,  his  eyes  question 
ing  of  hers. 

"  Yes, — friends.  But  the  friends  are  all  outside,  after 
all." 

Hewland  stood  silent. 

How  beautiful  it  might  be  to  make  home  for  such  a 
little  heart  as  this  !  To  surround  her  with  comfort  and 
prettiness,  such  as  she  loved  and  knew  how  to  contrive 
out  of  so  little  !  To  say,  —  "  Let  us  belong  together. 
Make  home  with  me  !  " 

Satan,  as  an  angel  of  light,  entered  into  him.  He 
knew  he  could  not  say  this  to  her  as  he  ought  to  say  it ; 
as  he  would  say  it  to  a  girl  of  his  own  class  whom  father 
and  mother  would  welcome.  There  was  no  girl  of 
his  own  class  he  had  ever  cared  to  say  it  to.  This  was 
the  first  woman  he  had  found,  with  whom  the  home 

21 


322  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

thought  joined  itself.  And  this  could  not  rightly  be.  If 
he  took  her,  he  would  no  longer  have  the  things  to  give 
her.  They  would  be  cast  out  together.  And  all  he 
could  do  was  to  make  pictures,  of  which  he  had  never 
sold  one,  or  thought  to  sell  one,  in  all  his  life.  He  would 
be  just  as  poor  as  she  was  ;  and  he  felt  that  he  did  not 
know  how  to  be  poor.  Besides,  he  wanted  to  be  rich  for 
her.  He  wanted  to  give  her,  —  now,  right  off,  —  every 
thing. 

Why  shouldn't  he  give?  Why  shouldn't  she  take? 
He  had  plenty  of  money ;  he  was  his  father's  only  son. 
He  meant  right ;  so  he  said  to  himself ;  and  what  had 
the  world  to  do  with  it  ? 

"  I  wish  I  could  take  care  of  you,  Bel !  Would  you  let 
me  ?  Would  you  go  with  me  ?  " 

The  words  seemed  to  have  said  themselves.  The 
devil,  whom  he  had  let  have  his  heart  for  a  minute,  had 
got  his  lips  and  spoken  through  them  before  he  knew. 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Bel.     "  Home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  —  home,"  said  the  young  man,  hesitating. 

"  Where  your  mother  lives  ?  " 

Bel  Bree's  simplicity  went  nigh  to  being  a  stronger 
battery  of  defense  than  any  bristling  of  alarmed  knowl 
edge. 

"  No,"  said  Morris  Hewland.  "Not  there.  It  would 
not  do  for  you,  or  her  either.  But  I  could  give  you  a 
little  home.  I  could  take  care  of  you  all  your  life  ;  all 
my  life.  And  I  would.  I  will  never  make  a  home  for 
anybody  else.  I  will  be  true  to  you,  if  you  will  trust 
me,  —  always.  So  help  me  God  !  " 

He  meant  it ;  there  was  no  dark,  deliberate  sin  in  his 
heart,  any  more  than  in  hers ;  he  was  tempted  on  the 
tehderest,  truest  side  of  his  nature,  as  he  was  tempting 


TEMPTATION.  323 

her.  He  did  not  see  why  he  should  not  choose  the 
woman  he  would  live  with  all  his  life,  though  he  knew 
he  could  not  choose  her  in  the  face  of  all  the  world ; 
though  he  could  not  be  married  to  her  in  the  Church  of 
the  Holy  Commandments,  with  bridesmaids  and  ushers, 
and  music  and  flowers,  and  point  lace  and  white  satin, 
and  fifty  private  carriages  waiting  at  the  door,  and  half 
a  ton  of  gold  and  silver  plate  and  verd  antique  piled  up 
for  them  in  his  father's  house. 

His  father  was  a  hard,  proud,  unflinching  man,  who 
loved  and  indulged  his  son,  after  his  fashion  and  possibil 
ity  ;  but  who  would  never  love  or  indulge  him  again  if 
he  offended  in  such  a  thing  as  this.  His  mother  was  a 
woman  who  simply  could  not  understand  that  a  girl  like 
Bel  Bree  was  a  creature  made  by  God  at  all,  as  her 
daughters  were,  and  her  son's  wife  should  be. 

"  Do  you  care  enough  for  me  ?  " 

Bel  stood  utterly  still.  She  had  never  been  asked  any 
such  questions  before,  but  she  felt  in  some  way,  that  this 
was  not  all ;  ought  not  to  be  all ;  that  there  was  more  he 
was  to  say,  before  she  could  answer  him . 

He  came  toward  her.  He  put  his  hands  on  hers.  He 
looked  eagerly  in  her  eyes.  He  did  not  hesitate  now; 
the  man's  nature  was  roused  in  him.  He  must  make  her 
speak,  —  say  that  she  cared. 

"  Don't  you  care  ?  Bel  —  you  do  !  You  are  my  little 
wife  ;  and  the  world  has  not  anything  to  do  with  it !  " 

She  broke  away  from  him  ;  she  shrunk  back. 

u  Don't  do  that,"  he  said,  imploringly.  "  I'm  not  bad, 
Bel.  The  world  is  bad.  Let  us  be  as  good  and  loving  as 
we  can  be  in  it.  Don't  think  me  bad." 

There  was  not  anything  bad  in  his  eyes  ;  in  his  young, 
loving,  handsome  face.  Bel  was  not  sure  enough,  — 


324  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

strong  enough,  —  to  denounce  the  evil 'that  was  using  the 
love ;  to  say  to  that  which  was  tempting  him,  and  her 
by  him,  as  Peter's  passionate  remonstrance  tempted  the 
Christ,  —  "  Thou  art  Satan.  Get  thee  behind  me." 

Yet  she  shrunk,  bewildered. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  can't  understand.  Let  me  go  now, 
Mr.  Hewland." 

She  turned  away  from  him,  into  the  chamber,  and 
reached  her  hand  to  the  door  as  she  turned,  putting  her 
fingers  on  its  edge  to  close  it  after  him.  She  stood  with 
her  back  to  him  ;  listening,  not  looking,  for  him  to  go. 

He  retreated,  then,  lingeringly,  across  the  threshold, 
his  eyes  upon  her  still.  She  shut  the  door  slowly,  walk 
ing  backward  as  she  pushed  it  to.  She  had  left,  if  not 
driven  the  devil  behind  her.  Yet  she  did  not  know  what 
she  had  done.  She  was  still  bewildered.  I  believe  the 
worst  she  thought  of  what  had  happened  was  that  he 
wanted  to  marry  her  secretly,  and  hide  her  away. 

"  Aunt  Blin !  "  she  cried,  when  she  felt  herself  all 
alone.  "  Aunt  Blin  !  —  She  can't  have  gone  so  very  far 
away,  quite  yet !  " 

She  went  over  to  the  closet,  with  her  arms  stretched 
out. 

She  went  in,  where  Aunt  Blin's  clothes  were  hanging. 
She  grasped  the  old,  worn  dress,  that  was  almost  warm 
with  the  wearing.  She  hid  her  face  against  the  sleeve, 
curved  with  the  shape  of  the  arm  that  had  bent  to  its 
tasks  in  it. 

"  Tell  me,  Aunt  Blin  !  You  can  see  clear,  where  you 
are.  Is  there  any  good  —  any  right  in  it  ?  Ought  I  to 
tell  him  that  I  care  ?  " 

She  cried,  and  she  waited  ;  but  she  got  no  answer 
there.  She  came  away,  and  sat  down. 


TEMPTATION.  H2o 

She  was  left  all  to  herself  in  the  nard,  dreary  world, 
with  this  doubt,  this  temptation  to  deal  with.  It  was 
her  wilderness  ;  and  she  did  not  remember,  yet,  the  Son 
of  God  who  had  been  there  before  her. 

"  Why  do  they  go  off  so  far  away  in  that  new  life,  out 
of  which  they  might  help  us  ?  " 

She  did  not  know  how  close  the  angels  were.  She 
listened  outside  for  them,  when  they  were  whispering 
already  at  her  heart.  We  need  to  go  in  ;  not  to  reach 
painfully  up,  and  away,  —  after  that  world  in  which  we 
also,  though  blindly,  dwell. 

On  the  table  lay  Aunt  Blin's  'great  Bible  ;  beside  it 
her  glasses. 

Something  that  Miss  Euphrasia  had  told  them  one  day 
at  the  chapel,  came  suddenly  into  her  mind. 

"  The  angels  are  always  near  u^  when  we  are  reading 
the  Word,  because  they  read,  always,  the  living  Word  in 
heaven." 

Was  that  the  way  ?  Might  she  enter  so,  and  find 
them  ? 

She  moved  slowly  to  the  table. 

It  was  growing  dark.  She  struck  a  match  and  lit  the 
gas,  turning  it  low.  She  laid  back  the  leaves  of  the 
large  volume,  to  the  latter  portion.  She  opened  it  in 
Matthew,  —  to  the  nineteenth  chapter. 

When  she  had  read  that,  she  knew  what  she  was  to 
Tlo. 

She  heard  nothing  more  from  Morris  Hewland  that 
night. 

In  the  morning,  early,  she  had  her  room  bright  and 
ready  for  the  day.  The  light  was  calm  and  clear  about 
her.  The  shadows  were  all  gone. 

She  opened  her  door,  and  sat  down,  waiting,  before  the 


326  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

fire.  Did  she  think  of  that  night  when  she  had  had  on 
the  rose-colored  silk,  and  had  set  the  door  ajar  ?  Some 
thing  in  her  had  made  her  ashamed  of  that.  She  was 
not  ashamed  —  she  had  no  misgiving — of  this  that  .she 
was  going  to  do  now. 

She  was  all  alone  ;  she  had  no  other  place  to  wait  in  ; 
she  had  no  one  to  tell  her  anything.  She  was  going  to 
do  a  plain,  right  thing,  whether  it  was  just  what  anybody 
else  would  do,  or  not.  She  never  even  asked  herself  that 
question. 

She  heard  Mr.  Sparrow,  with  his  hop  and  step,  come 
down  over  the  stairs.  He  always  came  down  first  of  all. 
Then  for  another  half  hour,  she  sat  still.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  Morris  Rowland's  door  unlatched  and  closed 
again. 

Her  heart  beat  quick.  She  stood  up,  with  her  face 
toward  the  open  door.  At  the  foot  of  that  upper  flight, 
she  heard  him  pause.  She  could  not  see  him  till  he 
passed ;  and  he  might  pass  without  turning.  Unless  he 
turned,  she  would  be  out  of  his  sight ;  for  the  door  swung 
inward  from  the  far  corner.  No  matter. 

He  went  by  with  a  slow  step.  He  could  not  help  see 
ing  the  open  door.  But  he  did  not  stop  or  turn,  until  he 
reached  the  stairhead  of  the  second  flight  ;  then  he  had 
to  face  this  way  again.  And  as  he  passed  around  the  rail 
ing,  he  looked  up ;  for  Bel  was  standing  where  she  had 
stood  last  night. 

She  had  put  herself  in  his  way ;  but  she  had  not  done 
it  lightly,  with  any  half  intent,  to  give  him  new  oppor 
tunity  for  words.  There  was  a  pure,  gentle  quiet  in  her 
face  ;  she  had  something  herself  to  say.  He  saw  it,  and 
went  back. 

He  colored,  as  he  gave  her  his  hand.  Her  face  was 
pale. 


TEMPTATION.  327 

"  Come  in  a  moment,  Mr.  Hewland,"  said  the  simple, 
girlish  voice. 

He  followed  her  in. 

"  You  asked  me  questions  last  night,  and  I  did  not 
know  how  to  answer  them.  I  want  to  ask  you  one  ques 
tion,  now." 

She  had  brought  him  to  the  side  of  the  round  table, 
upon  whose  red  cloth  the  large  Bible  lay.  It  was  open 
at  the  place  where  she  had  read  it. 

She  put  her  finger  on  the  page,  and  made  him  look. 
She  dreAV  the  finger  slowly  down  from  line  to  line,  as  if 
she  were  pointing  for  a  little  child  to  read  ;  and  his  eye 
followed  it. 

"  For  this  cause  shall  a  man  leave  father  and  mother, 
and  shall  cleave  to  his  wife  ;  and  they  twain  shall  be  one 
flesh. 

"  Wherefore,  they  are  no  more  twain,  but  one  flesh. 
What  therefore  God  hath  joined  together,  let  not  man 
put  asunder." 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  will  make  a  home  and  give  it  to 
me,  —  before  them  all  ?  "  she  said. 

He  forgot  the  sophistries  he  might  have  used  ;  he  for 
got  to  say  that  it  was  to  leave  father  and  mother  and  join 
himself  to  her,  that  he  had  purposed;  he  forgot  to  tell 
her  again  that  he  would  be  true  to  her  all  his  life,  and 
that  nothing  should  put  them  asunder.  He  did  not  take 
up  those  words,  as  men  have  done,  and  say  that  God  had 
joined  their  hearts  together  and  made  them  in  his  sight 
one.  The  angels  were  beside  him,  in  his  turn,  as  he  read. 
Those  sentences  of  the  Christ,  shining  up  at  him  from  the 
page,  were  like  the  look  turned  back  upon  Peter,  showing 
him  his  sin. 

"  One  flesh  :  "  to  be  seen  and  known  as  one.     To  have 


328  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

one  body  of  living  ;  to  be  outwardly  joined  before  the  face 
of  men.  None  to  set  them  asunder,  or  hold  them  separate, 
by  thought,  or  accident,  or  misunderstanding.  This  was 
the  sacred  acknowledgment  of  man  and  wife,  and  he  knew 
that  he  had  not  meant  to  make  it. 

As  he  stood  there,  silent,  she  knew  it  too.  She  knew 
that  she  should  not  have  been  his  wife  before  anybody. 

Her  young  face  grew  paler,  and  turned  stern. 

His  flushed  :  a  slow,  burning,  relentless  flush,  that  be 
trayed  him,  marking  him  like  Cain.  He  lowered  his  eyes 
in  the  heat  of  it,  and  stood  so  before  the  child. 

She  looked  steadfastly  at  him  for  one  instant ;  then  she 
shut  the  book,  and  turned  away,  delivering  him  from  the 
condemning  light  of  her  presence. 

"  No  :  I  will  not  go  to  that  little  home  with  you,"  she 
said  with  a  grief  and  scorn  mingled  in  her  voice,  as  they 
might  have  been  in  the  voice  of  an  angel. 

When  she  looked  round  again,  he  was  gone.  Their 
ways  had  parted. 

An  hour  later,  Bel  Bree  turned  the  key  outside  her 
door,  and  with  a  little  leather  bag  in  her  hand,  saying  not 
a  word  to  any  one,  went  down  into  the  street. 

Across  the  Common,  and  over  the  great  hill,  she  walked 
straight  to  Greenley  Street,  and  to  Miss  Desire. 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:  THE  PREACHING.  329 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:  THE  PREACHING. 

JAESIRE  LED  WITH  had  a  great  many  secrets  to 
*-^  keep.  Everybody  came  and  told  her  one. 

All  these  girls  whom  she  knew,  had  histories  ;  troubles, 
perplexities,  wrongs,  temptations,  —  greater  or  less.  Grad 
ually,  they  all  confessed  to  her.  The  wrong  side  of  the 
world's  patchwork  looked  ugly  to  her,  sometimes. 

Now,  here  came  Bel  Bree  ;  with  her  story,  and  her  lit 
tle  leather  bag  ;  her  homelessness,  her  friendlessness.  No, 
not  that ;  for  Desire  Ledwith  herself  contradicted  it ;  even 
Mrs.  Pimminy  and  Miss  Smalley  were  a  great  deal  better 
than  nothing.  Not  friendlessness,  then,  exactly  ;  but 
belonglessness. 

Desire  sent  down  to  Leicester  Place  for  Bel's  box  ;  for 
Cheeps  also.  Bel  wrote  a  note  to  Miss  Smalley,  asking 
her  to  take  in  Bartholomew.  What  came  of  that,  I  may 
as  well  tell  here  as  anywhere  ;  it  will  not  take  long.  It 
is  not  really  an  integral  part  of  our  story,  but  I  think  you 
will  like  to  know. 

Miss  Smalley  herself  answered  the  note.  It  was  easy 
enough  to  evade  any  close  questions  on  her  part ;  she 
thought  it  was  "  a  good  deal  more  suitable  for  Bel  not  to 
stay  at  Mrs.  Pimminy's  alone,  and  she  wasn't  an  atom 
surprised  to  know  she  had  concluded  so  ;  "  besides,  Miss 
Smalley  was  very  much  preoccupied  with  her  own  con 
cerns. 

"  There  was  the  room,"  she  said  ;  "  and  there  was  the 
furniture.  Now,  would  Bel  Bree  let  the  things  to  her, 


830  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

just  as  they  stood,  if  she,  —  well,  if  Mr.  Sparrow,  —  for 
she  didn't  mind  telling  Bel  that  she  and  Mr.  Sparrow  had 
made  up  their  minds  to  look  after  each  other's  comfort 
as  well  as  they  could  the  rest  of  their  lives,  seeing  how 
liable  we  all  were  to  need  comfort  and  company,  at  fires 
ana  thiugs  ;  —  if  Mr.  Sparrow  hired  the  room  of  Mrs. 
Pimminy  '  And  as  to  Bartholomew,  Mr.  Sparrow  wouldn't 
mind  him,  aim  ^he  didn't  think  Bartholomew  would  object 
to  Mr.  Sparrow.  Cats  rather  took  to  him,  he  thought. 
They  would  make  the  creature  welcome,  and  make  much 
of  him  ;  and  not  expect  it  to  be  considered  at  all." 

Bel  concluded  the  arrangement.  She  thought  it  would 
be  a  comfort  to  know  that  Aunt  Blip's  little  place  was 
not  all  broken  up,  but  that  somebody  was  happy  there  ; 
that  Bartholomew  had  his  old  corner  of  the  rug,  and  his 
airings  on  the  sunny  window-sill;  a^d  Miss  Smalley  — 
Mrs.  Sparrow  that  was  to  be  —  would  pay  her  fifteen 
dollars  a  year  for  the  things,  and  make  them  last. 

"  That  carpet  ?  "  she  had  said  ;  "  why,  it  hadn't  begun 
to  pocket  yet ;  and  there  hadn't  been  any  breadths 
changed  ;  and  the  mats  saved  the  hearth-front  had  the 
doorway,  and  she  could  lay  down  more.  And  it  would 
turn,  when  it  came  to  that,  and  last  on  —  as  long  as  ^\"  r 
There  was  six  years  in  that  carpet,  without  darning,  if 
there  was  a  single  day ;  and  Mr.  Sparrow  always  took  off 
his  boots  and  put  on  his  slippers,  the  minute  ever  he  got 
in." 

Desire's  library  was  full  on  Wednesday  evenings,  now. 
The  girls  came  for  instruction,  for  social  companionship, 
for  comfort.  On  the  table  in  the  dining-room  were  al 
most  always  little  parcels  waiting,  ready  done  up  for  one 
and  another  ;  little  things  Desire  and  Hazel  "  thought 
of"  beforehand,  as  what  they  "might  like  and  find  con- 


BET.  BREE'S  CRUSADE  :  THE  PREACHING.       331 

venient ;  and  what  they  "  -  Desire  and  Hazel  —  "  hap 
pened  to  have."  Sometimes  it  was  a  paper  of  nice  primes 
for  a  delicate  appetite  that  was  kept  too  much  to  dry, 
economical  food.  Perhaps  it  was  a  jar  of  "  Liebig's  Ex 
tract  "  for  Emma  Hollen,  that  she  might  make  beef -tea 
for  herself  ;  or  a  remnant  of  flannel  that  "  would  just  do 
for  a  couple  of  undervests."  It  was  sure  to  be  something 
just  right ;  something  with  a  real  thought  in  it. 

And  out  here  in  the  dining-room,  as  they  took  their 
little  parcels,  —  or  lingering  in  the  hall  aside  from  the 
others,  or  stopping  in  a  corner  of  the  library,  —  they 
would  have  their  "  words  "  with  Desire  and  Hazel  and 
Sylvie ;  always  some  confidence,  or  some  question,  or 
some  telling  of  how  this  or  that  had  gone  on  or  turned 
out. 

In  these  days  after  the  Great  Fire,  no  wonder  that  the 
dozen  or  fifteen  became  twenty,  or  even  thirty  ;  the  very 
pigeons  and  sparrows  tell  each  other  where  the  people  are 
who  love  and  feed  them  ;  no  wonder  that  all  the  chairs 
had  to  be  brought  in,  and  that  the  room  was  full ;  that 
the  room  in  heart  and  brain,  for  sympathy  and  plan  and 
counsel,  was  crowded  also,  or  would  have  been,  if  heart 
and  brain  were  not  made  to  grow  as  fast  as  they  take  in 
tendernesses  and  thoughts.  If,  too,  one  need  did  not  fit 
right  in  and  help  another ;  and  if  being  "  right  in  the 
midst  of  the  work  "  did  not  continually  give  light  and 
suggestion  and  opportunity. 

Bel  Bree  came  among  them  now,  with  her  heart  full. 

"  I  know  it  better  than  ever,"  she  said  to  Miss  Desire. 
u  I  know  that  what  ever  so  many  of  these  girls  want, 
most  of  all,  is  home.  A  place  to  work  in  where  they  can 
rest  between  whiles,  if  it  is  only  for  snatches ;  not  to  be 
out,  and  on  their  feet,  and  just  driving,  with  the  minutes 


332  THE   OTHER   GIKLS. 

at  their  heels,  all  day  long.  Girls  want  to  work  under 
cover  ;  they  can  favor  themselves  then,  and  not  slight  the 
work  either.  And  especially,  they  want  to  belong  some 
where.  They  can't  fling  themselves  about,  separate,  any 
where,  without  a  great  many  getting  spoiled,  or  lost. 
They  want  some  signs  of  care  over  them ;  and  I  believe 
there  are  places  where  they  could  have  it.  If  they  can 
put  twenty  tucks  into  a  white  petticoat  for  a  cent  a  piece, 
and  work  half  a  day  at  it,  and  find  their  own  fire  and 
bread  and  tea,  why  can't  they  do  it  for  half  a  cent  a  tuck, 
even,  in  people's  houses,  where  they  can  have  fire  and 
lodging  and  meals,  and  a  name,  at  any  rate,  of  being  seen 
to?" 

"  Say  so  to  them,  Bel.  Tell  them  yourself,  what  you 
mean  to  do,  and  find  out  who  will  do  it  with  you.  If 
this  movement  could  come  from  the  girls  themselves,  — 
if  two  or  three  would  join  together  and  begin,  —  I  believe 
the  leaven  would  work.  I  believe  it  is  the  next  thing, 
and  that  somebody  is  to  lead  the  way.  Why  not  you  ?  " 

That  night,  the  Read-and-Talk  left  off  the  reading. 
Miss  Led  with  told  them  that  there  was  so  much  to  say, — 
so  much  she  wanted  a  word  from  them  about,  —  that 
they  would  give  up  the  books  for  one  evening.  They 
would  think  about  home,  instead  of  far-off  places  ;  about 
themselves,  —  each  other,  —  and  things  that  were  laid 
out  for  them  to  do,  instead  of  people  who  had  taken  their 
turn  at  the  world's  work  hundreds  of  years  ago.  They 
would  try  and  talk  it  out,  —  this  hard  question  of  work, 
and  place,  and  living  ;  and  see,  if  they  could,  what  way 
was  provided,  —  as  in  the  nature  of  things  there  must  be 
some  way, — for  everybody  to  be  busy,  and  everybody 
to  be  better  satisfied.  She  thought  Bel  Bree  had  got  a 
notion  of  one  way,  .that  was  open,  or  might  be,  to  a  good 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:  THE  PREACHING.  333 

many ;  a  way  that  it  remained,  perhaps,  for  themselves 
to  open  rightly. 

"  Now,  Bel,  just  tell  us  all  how  you  feel  about  it. 
There  isn't  any  of  us  whom  you  wouldn't  say  it  to  alone  ; 
and  every  one  of  us  is  only  listening  separately.  When 
you  have  finished,  somebody  else  may  have  a  word  to 
answer." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  could  finish,"  said  Bel  Bree,  "  ex 
cept  by  going  and  living  it  out.  And  that  is  just  what 
I  think  we  have  got  to  do.  I've  said  it  before  ;  the 
girls  know  I  have  ;  but  I'm  surer  than  ever  of  it  now. 
Why,  where  does  all  the  work  come  from,  but  out  of  the 
homes  ?  I  know  some  kinds  may  always  have  to  be  done 
in  the  lump  ;  but  there's  ever  so  much  that  might  be 
done  where  it  is  wanted,  and  everybody  be  better  off. 
We  want  homes  ;  and  we  want  real  people  to  work  for  ; 
those  two  things.  I  know  we  do.  A  lot  of  stuff,  and 
miles  of  stitches,  ain't  work  ;  it  don't  make  real  human 
beings,  I  think.  It  makes  business,  I  suppose,  and 
money  ;  I  don't  know  what  it  all  comes  round  to,  though, 
for  anybody  :  more  spending,  perhaps,  and  more  having ; 
but  not  half  so  much  being.  At  any  rate,  it  don't  come 
round  in  that  to  us ;  and  we've  got  to  look  out  for  our 
selves.  If  we  get  right,  who  knows  but  other  folks  may 
get  righter  in  consequence?  What  I  think  is,  that 
wherever  there's  a  family,  —  a  father  and  a  mother  and 
little  children,  —  there's  work  to  do,  and  a  home  to  do  it 
in  ;  and  we  girls  who  haven't  homes  and  little  children, 
and  perhaps  sha'n't  ever  have,  —  ain't  much  likely  to 
have  as  things  are  now,  —  could  be  happier  and  safer, 
and  more  used  to  what  we  ought  to  be  used  to  in  case 
we  should,"* —  (Bel's  sentences  were  getting  to  be  very 
rambling  and  involved,  but  her  thoughts  urged  her  on. 


334  THE    CTREE    GIRLS. 

and  everybody's  in  the  room  followed  her),  —  "if  we 
went  right  in  where  the  things  were  wanted,  and  did 
them.  The  sewing,  —  and  the  cooking, —  and  the  sweep 
ing,  too  ;  everything  ;  I  mean,  whatever  we  could  ;  any 
of  it.  You  call  it  '  living  out,'  and  say  you  wont't  do  it ; 
but  what  you  do  now  is  the  living  out !  We  could  afford 
to  go  and  say  to  people  who  are  worrying  about  poor 
help  and  awful  wages,  — '  We'll  come  and  do  well  by 
you  for  half  the  money.  We  know  what  homes  are 
worth.'  And  wouldn't  some  of  them  think  the  millen 
nium  was  come ?  Jam  going  to  try  it." 

Bel  stopped.  She  did  not  think  of  such  a  thing  as 
having  made  a  speech  ;  she  had  only  said  a  little  —  just 
as  it  came  —  of  what  she  was  full  of. 

"  You'll  get  packed  in  with  a  lot  of  dirty  servants. 
You  won't  have  the  home.  You'll  only  have  the  work 
of  it." 

"  No,  Kate  Sencerbox.  I  sha'n't  do  that ;  because  I'm 
going  to  persuade  you  to  go  with  me.  And  we'll  make 
the  home,  if  they  give  us  ever  so  little  a  corner  of  it. 
And  as  soon  as  they  find  out  what  we  are,  they'll  treat  us 
accordingly." 

Kate  Sencerbox  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  The  world  isn't  going  to  be  made  all  over  in  a  day, 
—  nor  Boston  either ;  not  if  it  is  all  burnt  up  to  begin 
with." 

"  That  is  true,  Kate,"  said  Desire  Ledwith.  "  Yon 
will  have  difficulties.  But  you  have  difficulties  now. 
And  wouldn't  it  be  worth  while  to  change  these  that  are 
growing  worse,  for  such  as  might  grow  better  ?  Wouldn't 
it  be  grand  to  begin  to  make  even  a  little  piece  of  the 
world  over  ?  " 

"  We  could  start  with  new  people,"  said  Bel.    "  Young 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:  THE  PREACHING.  335 

people.  They  are  the  very  ones  that  have  the  hardest 
time  with  the  old  sort  of  servants.  We  could  go  out  of 
town,  where  the  old  sort  won't  stay.  You  see  it's  homes 
we're  after  ;  real  ones  ;  and  to  help  make  them  ;  and  it's 
homes  they  hate  !  " 

"  Where  did  you  find  it  all  out,  Bel  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Talk  ;  and  newspapers.  And  it's  in 
the  air." 

Bel  was  her  old,  quick,  bright,  earnest  self,  taking  hold 
of  this  thing  that  she  so  truly  meant.  She  turned  round 
to  it  eagerly,  escaping  from  the  thoughts  which  she 
resolutely  flung  out  of  her  mind.  There  was  perhaps 
a  slight  impetus  of  this  hurry  of  escape  in  her  eagerness. 
But  Bel  was  strong  ;  strong  in  her  purity;  in  her  real 
poet-nature,  that  reached  -for  and  demanded  the  real  soul 
of  living ;  in  her  incapacity  to  care  for  the  shadow  or 
pretense,  —  far  more  the  sullied  sham,  —  of  anything. 
Contempt  of  the  evil  had  come  swiftly  to  cure  the  sting 
of  the  evil.  Satan  would  fain  have  had  her,  to  sift  her 
like  wheat ;  but  she  had  been  prayed  for  ;  and  now  that 
she  was  saved,  she  was  inspired  to  strengthen  her  sisters. 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  do  anything  but  sewing,"  said 
Emma  Hollen,  plaintively.  "  I'm  not  strong  enough. 
And'  ladies  won't  see  to  their  own  sewing,  now,  in  their 
houses.  It's  so  much  easier  to  go  right  into  Feede  & 
Treddle's,  and  buy  ready-made,  that  we've  done  the 
stitching  for  at  forty  cents  a  day,  hard  work,  and  find 
ourselves  I  " 

"  I  don't  say  that  every  girl  in  Boston  can  walk  right 
into  a  nice  good  home,  and  be  given  something  to  do 
there.  But  I  say  there's  no  danger  of  too  many  trying 
it  yet  awhile  ;  and  by  the  time  they  do,  maybe  we'll  have 
changed  things  a  little  for  them.  I'm  willing  to  be  the 
thin  edge  of  the  wedge,"  said  Bel  Bree. 


336  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  Right  things  have  the  power.  God  sees  to  that," 
eaid  Desire.  "  The  right  cannot  stop  working.  The 
life  is  in  it." 

"  The  thing  I  think  of,"  said  Elise  Mokey,  decidedh , 
u  is  suller  kitchens.  I  ain't  ready  to  be  put  underground, 
—  not  yet  awhile.  Not  even  by  way  of  going  to  heaven, 
every  night ;  or  as  near  as  four  flights  can  carry  me." 

"  In  the  country  they  don't  have  cellar  kitchens.  And 
anyway,  there's  always  a  window,  and  a  fire  ;  and  with 
things  clean  and  cheerful,  and  some  green  thing  growing 
for  Cheeps  to  sing  to,  I'll  do,"  said  Bel.  "  You've  got  to 
begin  with  what  there  is,  as  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  did." 

Ray  Ingrahani  could  have  told  them,  if  she  had  been 
there  this  Wednesday  evening,  how  Dot  had  begun. 
Miss  Led  with  said  nothing  about  it,  because  she  felt  that 
it  was  an  exceptional  case.  She  would  not  put  a  falsely 
flattering  precedent  before  these  girls,  to  win  them  to  an 
experiment  which  with  them  might  prove  a  hard  and 
disappointing  one.  Desire  Ledwith  was  absolutely  fair- 
minded  in  everything  she  did.  The  feeling  on  their  part 
that  she  was  so,  was  what  gave  them  their  trust  in  her. 
To  bring  a  subject  to  her  consideration  and  judgment, 
was  to  bring  it  into  clear  sunlight. 

Dot  had  gone  up  to  Z ,  to  live  with  the  Kincaids, 

at  the  Horse  Shoe. 

Drops  of  quicksilver,  if  they  are  put  anywise  near 
together,  will  run  into  each  other.  And  that  is  the  law 
of  the  kingdom  of  good.  Circumstances  are  far  more 
fluid  to  the  blessed  magnetism  than  we  think.  The 
whole  tendency  of  the  right,  neighborly  life  is  to  reach 
forth  and  draw  together ;  to  bring  into  one  circle  of  com 
munication  people  and  plans  of  one  spirit  and  purpose. 
Then,  before  we  know  how  it  is,  we  find  them  linking 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE  :  THE  PREACHING.  337 

and  fitting  here  and  there,  helping  wonderfully  to  make 
a  beautiful  organism  of  result  that  we  could  not  have 
planned  or  foreseen  beforehand,  any  more  than  we  could 
have  planned  our  own  bodies.  It  is  the  growing  up  into 
one  body  in  Christ. 

Hazel  Ripwinkley  said  it  all  came  of  "  knowing  the 
Muffin  Man  ;  "  and  so  it  did.  The  Bread-Giver  ;  the 
Provider.  It  is  queer  they  should  have  made  such  an 
unconscious  parable  in  that  nonsense-play.  But  you 
can't  help  making  parables,  do  what  you  will. 

Rosamond  Kincaid  had  her  hands  full  now ;  she  had 
her  little  Stephen. 

He  came  like  a  little  angel  of  delight,  in  one  way ;  the 
real,  heart  way ;  but  another,  —  the  practical  way  of 
day's  doing  and  ordering,  —  he  came  like  a  little  Hun, 
overrunning  and  devastating  everything. 

While  Rosamond  had  been  up-stairs,  and  Mrs.  Waters 
had  been  nursing  her,  and  Miss  Arabel  coming  in  and 
out  to  see  that  all  was  straight  below,  it  had  been  lovely  ; 
it  was  the  peace  of  heaven. 

But  when  Mrs.  Waters  —  who  was  one  of  those  born 
nurses  whom  everybody  who  has  any  sort  of  claim  sends 
for  in  all  emergency  of  sickness  —  had  to  pack  up  her 
valise  and  go  to  Portland,  where  her  niece's  son  was  taken 
with  rheumatic  fever,  and  her  niece  had  another  bleeding 
at  the  lungs ;  when  the  days  grew  short,  and  the  nights 
long,  and  the  baby  would  not  settle  his  relations  with  the 
solar  system,  but  having  begun  his  earthly  career  in  the 
night-time,  kept  a  dead  reckoning  accordingly,  and  con 
tinued  to  make  the  midnight  hours  his  hours  of  demand 
and  enterprise, — the  nice  little  systematic  calculations 
by  which  the  household  had  been  regulated  fell  into 
hopeless  uncertainties. 


338  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Dorris  had  so  many  music  scholars  now,  that  she  was 
obliged  to  leave  home  at  nine  in  the  morning ;  and  at 
night  she  was  very  tired.  It  was  indispensable  for  her 
and  for  Kenneth  that  dinner  should  be  punctual.  Rosa 
mond  could  not  let  Miss  Arabel's  labors  of  love  grow  into 
matter-of-course  service. v 

And  then  there  were  all  the  sewing  and  mending  to 
do  ;  which  had  not  been  anything  to  think  of  when  there 
had  been  plenty  of  time  ;  but  which,  now  that  the  baby 
devoured  all  the  minutes,  and  made  a  houseful  of  work 
beside,  began  to  grow  threatening  with  inevitable  pro 
crastinations. 

[Barbara  Goldthwaite,  who  was  at  home  at  West  Hill 
with  her  baby,  averred  that  these  were  the  angels  who 
came  to  declare  that  time  should  be  no  longer.] 

Rosamond  would  not  have  a  nursery  maid ;  she 
"  would  not  give  up  her  baby  to  anybody  ; "  neither 
would  she  let  a  "  kitchen  girl "  into  her  paradisiacal 
realm  of  shining  tins,  and  top-over  cups,  and  white, 
hemmed  dishcloths. 

"  Let's  have  a  companion  !  "  said  Dorris.  "  Let's 
afford  her  together." 

When  their  "  Christian  Register "  came,  that  very 
week,  there  was  Dot  Ingraham's  advertisement. 

Mr.  Kincaid  went  into  the  city,  and  round  to  Pilgrim 
Street,  and  found  her ;  and  now,  in  this  November  when 
every  machine  girl  in  Boston  was  thrown  back  upon  her 
savings,  or  her  friends,  or  the  public  contribution,  she 
was  tucking  up  little  short  dresses  for  Stephen,  whom 
Rosamond,  according  to  the  family  tradition,  called  reso 
lutely  by  his  name,  and  whom  she  would,  at  five  months 
old,  put  into  the  freedom  of  frocks,  "  in  which  he  could 
begin  to  feel  himself  a  little  human  being,  and  not  a 
tadpole." 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE  :  THE  PREACHING.  339 

Dot  helped  in  the  kitchen,  too  ;  but  this  was  a  home 
kitchen.  She  became  one  of  themselves,  for  whatever 
there  was  to  be  done.  Especially  she  took  triumphant 
care  of  Rosamond's  stand  of  plants,  which,  under  her 
quickly  recognized  touch  and  tending,  rushed  tumultu- 
ously  into  a  green  splendor,  and  even  at  this  early  winter 
time,  showed  eager  little  buds  of  bloom,  of  all  that  could 
bloom. 

They  had  books  and  loud  reading  over  their  work. 
Everything  got  done,  and  there  were  leisure  hours  again. 
Dot  earned  four  dollars  a  week,  and  once  a  fortnight 
went  home  and  spent  a  Sunday  with  her  mother. 

All  went  blessedly  at  the  Horse  Shoe ;  but  there  is  not- 
a  Horse  Shoe  everywhere.  It  is  always  a  piece  of  luck 
to  find  one. 

Desire  Ledwith  knew  that ;  so  she  held  her  peace 
about  it  for  a  while,  among  these  girls  to  whom  Bel  Bree 
was  preaching  her  crusade.  All  they  knew  was  that  Dot 
Ingraham  and  her  machine  were  gone  away  into  a  family 
eighteen  miles  from  Boston. 

"  If  you  find  anything  for  me  to  do,  Miss  Ledwith,  I'll 
do  it,"  said  Kate  Sencerbox.  "  But  I  won't  go  into  one 
of  those  offices,  nor  off  into  the  country  for  the  winter. 
I  want  to  keep  something  to  hold  on  to,  —  not  run  out  to 
sea  without  a  rope." 

Desire  did  not  propose  advertising,  as  she  had  done  to 
Dot ;  she  would  let  Kate  wait  a  week.  A  week  in  the 
new  condition  of  things  might  teach  her  a  good  deal. 


340  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TBOUBLE   AT   THE   SCHERMANS'. 

rpHERE  was  trouble  in  Mrs.  Frank  Scherman's  pretty 
-*-  little  household. 

The  trouble  was,  it  did  not  stay  little.  Baby  Karen 
was  only  six  weeks  old,  and  Marmaduke  was  only  three 
years  ;  great,  splendid  fellow  though  he  was  at  that,  and 
"  galumphing  round,  "  —  as  his  mother  said,  who  read 
nonsense  to  Sinsie  out  of  "  Wonderland,"  and  the  "  Look 
ing  Glass,  "  —  upon  a  stick. 

Of  course  she  read  nonsense,  and  talked  nonsense,  — 
the  very  happiest  and  most  reckless  kind,  —  in  her 
nursery  ;  this  bright  Sin  Scherman,  who  "  had  lived  on 
nonsense,"  she  declared,  "  herself,  until  she  was  twenty 
years  old ;  and  it  did  her  goad."  Therefore,  on  physio 
logical  principles,  she  fed  it  to  her  little  ones.  It  agreed 
with  the  Saxon  constitution.  There  was  nothing  like 
understanding  your  own  family  idiosyncrasies. 

Everything  quaint  and  odd  came  naturally  to  them ; 
even  their  names. 

Asenath.:  Marmaduke  :  Kerenhappuch. 

"  I  didn't  go  about  to  seek  or  invent  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Scherman,  with  grave,  innocent  eyes  and  lifted  brows. 
"  I  didn't  name  myself,  in  the  first  place  ;  did  I  ?  Sinsie 
had  to  be  Sinsie  ;  and  then  —  how  am  I  accountable  for 
the  blessed  luck  that  gave  me  for  best  friends  dear  old 
Marmaduke  Wharne  and  Kerenhappuch  Craydocke  ?  " 

But  down  in  the  kitchen,  and  up  in  the  nursery,  there 
was  disapproval. 


TROUBLE  AT  THE  SCHERMANS'.          341 

"  It  was  bad  enough,"  they  said,  —  these  orderers  of 
household  administration,  —  "  when  there  was  two.  And 
no  second  nurse-girl,  and  no  laundress  !  " 

"  If  Mrs.  Scherman  thinks  I'm  going  to  put  up  with 
baby-clothes  slopping  about  all  days  of  the  week,  when 
ever  a  nurse  can  get  time  from  tending,  and  the  parlor 
girl  havin'  to  accommodate  and  hold  the  child  when  she 
gets  her  meals,'  and  nobody  to  fetch  out  the  dishes  and 
give  me  a  chance  to  clear  up,  I  can  just  tell  her  it's  too 
thin  ! " 

"  Ye'r  a  fool  to  stay,"  was  the  expostulation  of  an  out 
side  friend,  calling  one  day  to  see  and  condole  with  and 
exasperate  the  aforesaid  nurse.  "  When  ther's  places 
yer  might  have  three  an'  a  half  a  week,  an'  a  nurse  for 
the  baby  separate,  an'  not  a  stitch  to  wash,  not  even  yer 
own  things  !  If  they  was  any  account  at  all,  they'd  keep 
a  laundress ! " 

"  I  know  there's  places,"  said  the  aggrieved,  but  wary 
Agnes.  "  But  the  thing  is  to  be  sure  an'  git  'em.  And 
what  would  I  do,  waitin'  round  ?  " 

"  Advertiss,"  returned  the  friend.  "  Yer'd  have  heaps 
of  'em  after  yer.  It's  fun  to  see  the  carriages  rollin' 
along,  one  after  the  other,  in  a  hurry,  and  the  coachmen 
lookin'  out  for  the  number  with  ther  noses  turned  up. 
An'  then  yer  take  it  quite  calm,  yer  see,  an'  send  'em  off 
agin  till  yer  find  out  how  many  more  comes ;  an'  yer 
consider.  That's  the  time  yer'll  know  yer  value  !  I've 
got  an  advertiss  out  now ;  an'  I've  had  twenty-three  of 
em,  beggin'  and  prayin',  down  on  ther  bare  knees  all  but, 
since  yesterday  mornin'.  I've  been  down  to  Pinyon's  to 
day,  with  my  croshy-work,  for  a  change.  Norah  Moyle's 
there,  with  the  rest  of  'em  ;  doin'  ther  little  sewin'  work, 
an'  hearin'  the  news,  an'  aggravatin'  the  ladies.  Yer'll 


342  THE    OTHER    GTRLS. 

see  'em  come  in,  —  betune  ten  an'  eleven's  the  time,  when 
the  cars  arrives,  —  hot  and  flustered,  an'  not  knowin'  for 
their  lives  which  way  to  turn ;  an'  yer  talks  'em  all  up 
and  down,  deliberate ;  an'  makes  'em  answer  all  the 
questions  yer  like,  and  then  yer  tells  'em,  quite  perlite, 
at  the  end,  that  yer  don't  think  'twould  suit  yer  expec- 
tash'ns ;  it's  not  precisely  what  yer  was  lookin'  for.  Yer 
toss  'em  over  for  all  the  world  as  they  tosses  goods  on  the 
counter.  Ah,  yer  can  see  a  deal  of  life,  that  way,  of  a 
morriin'  !  " 

Agnes  feels,  naturally,  after  this,  that  she  makes  a  very 
paltry  and  small  appearance  in  the  eyes  of  her  friend, 
and  betrays  herself  to  be  very  much  behindhand  in  the 
ways  of  the  world,  putting  up  meekly,  as  she  is,  with  a 
new  baby  and  no  second  nurse  or  laundress  ;  and  forget 
ting  the  day  when  she  thought  her  fortune  was  made  and 
she  was  a  lady  forever,  coming  from  general  housework 
in  Aberdeen  Street  to  be  nursery-maid  in  Harrisburg 
Square,  she  begins  the  usual  preliminaries  of  neglect,  and 
sauciness,  and  staying  out  beyond  hours,  and  general 
defiance,  —  takes  sides  in  the  kitchen  against  the  family 
regime,  and  so  helps  on  the  evolution  of  things  all  and 
particular,  that  at  the  end  of  another  fortnight  the  house 
is  empty  of  servants,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scherman  are  grace 
fully  removing  their  breakfast  dishes  from  the  dining- 
room  to  the  kitchen,  and  Marmaduke,  left  to  the  sugar- 
bowl  and  his  own  further  devices,  comes  tumbling  clown 
the  stairs  just  in  time  to  meet  Mrs.  M'Cormick,  the 
washerwoman,  arrived  for  the  day.  She,  used  to  her  own 
half  dozen,  picks  him  up  as  if  she  had  expected  him, 
shuts  him  up  like  an  umbrella,  hustles  him  under  her 
big,  strong  arm,  and  bears  him  summarily  to  the  cold- 
water  faucet,  which,  without  uttering  a  syllable,  she  turns 
upon  his  small,  bewildered,  and  pitifully  bumped  head. 


TROUBLE   AT   THE   SCHEBMANS*. 

It  will  be  always  a  confused  and  mysterious  riddle  to 
his  childish  recollection,  — what  strange  gulf  he  fell  into 
that  day,  and  how  the  kitchen  sink  and  those  great,  grab 
bing  arms  came  to  be  at  the  end  of  it. 

"  How  happened  Dukie  to  tumble  down-stairs?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Scherman,  in  the  way  mothers  do,  when  she  had 
released  him  from  Mrs.  M'Cormick,  carried  him  to  the 
nursery,  got  him  on  her  knee  in  a  speechful  condition, 
and  was  tenderly  sopping  the  blue  lump  on  his  forehead 
with  arnica  water. 

"  I  dicher  tumber,"  said  the  little  Saxon,  stoutly,  re 
placing  all  the  consonant  combinations  that  he  couldn't 
skip,  with  the  aspirated  4  ch  ; '  "  I  dicher  tumber.  I  f'ied." 
"  You  what  ?  " 

«  F'ied.     I  icher  pa'yow.     On'y  die  tare  too  big  ! 
"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Sin,  laughing.     "  The  stairs  are  a 
great  deal  too  big.    And  little  sparrows  don't  fly  —  down 
stairs.     They  hop  round,  and  pick  up  crumbs." 

«  Ho  I  did,"  said  Marmaduke,  showing  his  white  li 
front  teeth  in  the  midst  of  a  surrounding  shine  of  sticki 
ness. 

«  Yes.  I  see.  Sugar.  But  you  didn't  manage  that 
much  better,  either.  The  trouble  is,  you  haven't  quite 
turned  into  a  little  bird,  yet.  You  haven't  any  little 
beak  to  pick  up  clean  with,  nor  ^any  wings  to  fly  with. 
You'll  have  to  wait  till  you  grow." 

"  I  ta'h  wa'he.     I  icher  pa'yow  now  !  " 
"  What  shall  I  do  with,  this  child,  Frank  ?  "  asked  Sin, 
with  her  grave,  funny  lifting  of  her  brows,  as  her  husband 
came  into  the  room.     "He's  got  hypochondriasis. 
thinks  he's  a  sparrow,  and  he's  determined  to  fly.     We 
shall  have  him  trying  it  off  every  possible  —  I  mean  im 
possible  —  place  in  the  house." 


THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  Put  him  in  a  cage,"  said  Mr.   Scherman,  with  equal 
gravity. 

"Yes,  of  course.  That's  where  little  house-birds 
belong.  Duke,  see  here  !  Little  birds  that  live  in  houses 
never  fly.  And  they  never  pick  up  crumbs,  either,  except 
what  are  put  for  them  into  their  own  little  dishes.  They 
live  in  tiny  wire  rooms,  fixed  so  that  they  can't  fly  out. 
Like  your  nursery,  with  the  bars  across  the  windows,  and 
the  gate  at  the  door.  You  and  Sinsie  are  two  little  birds ; 
mamma's  sparrows.  And  you  mustn't  try  to  get  out  of 
your  cage  unless  she  takes  you." 

"  Then  you're  the  great  sparrow,"  put  in  Sinsie,  com 
ing  up  beside  her,  laughing.  «  Whose  sparrow  are  you  ?  " 
Asenath  looked  up  at  her  husband. 
"  Yes ;  it's  a  true  story,  after  all.     You  can't  make  up 
anything.     It  has  been  all  told  before.     We're  all  spar 
rows,  Sinsie,—  God's  sparrows." 
"In  cages?" 

"  Yes.  Only  we  can't  always  see  the  wires.  They 
are  very  fine.  There  !  That's  as  far  as  you  or  I  can 
understand.  Now  be  good  little  birdies,  and  hop  round 
here  together  till  mamma  comes  back." 

She  went  into  her  own  room,  to  the  tiniest  little  birdie 
of  all,  that  was  just  waking. 

Sinsie  and  Marmaduke  had  got  a  new  play,  now.  They 
were  quite  contented  to  be  sparrows,  and  chirp  at  each 
other,  springing  and  lighting  about,  from  one  green  spot 
to  another  in  the  pattern  of  the  nursery  carpet. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Sinsie,  confidentially  ;  «  spar 
rows  don't  have  girls  to  interfere,  do  they  ?  They  live 
in  the  cages  and  help  themselves.  I  like  it.  I'm  glad 
Agnes  is  gone." 

Sinsie  was  four  and  a  half ;  she  had  "  talked  plain  " 


TROUBLE  AT  THE  SCHERMANS5.          345 

ever  since  she  was  one  ;  and  the  nonsense  that  her  mother 
had  talked  to  her  being  always  bright  nonsense,  such  as 
she  would  talk  to  anybody  on  the  same  subject,  there 
was  something  quaint  in  the  child's  fashion  of  speech,  and 
her  unexpected  use  of  words.  Asenath  Scherman  did  not 
keep  two  dictionaries,  nor  pare  off  an  idea,  as  she  would 
a  bit  of  apple  before  she  gave  it  to  a  child.  It  was  notice 
able  how  she  sharpened  their  little  wits  continually 
against  her  own  without  straining  them. 

And  there  was  a  reflex  action  to  this  sharpening.  She 
was  fuller  of  graceful  little  whims,  of  quick  and  keen  il 
lustrations,  than  ever.  Her  friends  who  were  admitted 
to  nursery  intimacies  and  nursery  talk,  said  it  was  ever 
so  much  better  than  any  grown-up  dinner-tables  and 
drawing-rooms. 

"  Well,"  she  would  answer,  "I'm  not  much  in  the  way 
of  dinner -tables  and  drawing-rooms.  I  just  have  to  live 
right  along,  and  what  there  is  of  me  comes  out  here.  I 
rather  think  we'll  save  time  and  comfort  by  it  in  the  end, 
—  Sinsie  and  I.  She  won't  want  so  much  special  taking 
into  society  by  and  by,  before  she  can  learn  to  tell  one 
thing  from  another.  Frank  and  I,  with  such  friends  as 
come  here  in  our  own  fashion,  will  make  a  society  for  her 
from  the  beginning,  as  well  as  we  can.  She  will  get 
more  from  us  in  twenty  years  than  she  would  from  '  soci 
ety  '  in  two.  And  if  I  4  kept  up  '  outside,  now,  for  the 
sake  of  her  future,  that  would  be  the  alternative  ?  I  be 
lieve  more  in  growing  up  than  in  coming  out." 

If  there  was  a  reflex  action  in  the  mental  influence, 
how  much  more  in  the  tender  and  spiritual !  How  many 
a  word  came  back  into  her  own  heart  like  a  dove,  that 
she  first  thought  of  in  giving  it  to  her  child ! 

She  sat  now  in  her  chamber,  bathing  and  dressing  baby 


346  T.HE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Karen  ;  and  all  the  perplexities  of  the  day,  —  the  days 
or  weeks,  perhaps,  —  that  had  stretched  out  before  her, 
melted  into  a  sweetness,  remembering  that  she  herself 
was  but  one  of  God's  sparrows,  fed  out  of  his  hand ;  and 
that  all  her  limitations,  as  well  as  her  unsuspected  safeties, 
were  the  fine  wires  with  which  He  surrounded  and  held 
her  in. 

"  He  knows  my  cage,"  she  thought.  "  He  has  put  me 
here  Himself,  and  He  will  not  forget  me." 

Frank  dined  down  town ;  Asenath  had  her  lunch  of 
bread  and  butter,  and  beef  tea  ;  and  an  egg  beaten  in  a 
tumbler,  with  sugar  and  cream,  for  her  dessert.  The 
children,  with  their  biscuit  and  milk  and  baked  apple, 
were  easily  cared  for.  They  played  "sparrow  "  all  day  ; 
Asenath  put  their  little  bowls  and  spoons  on  the  low 
nursery  table,  and  left  them  to  "  help  themselves." 

Honest,  rough  Mrs.  M'Cormick  fetched  and  carried  for 
her,  and  "  cleaned  up "  down-stairs.  Then  Asenath 
wrote  a  few  lines  to  Desire  Ledwith,  told  her  strait,  and 
asked  if  she  could  take  a  little  trouble  for  her,  and  send 
her  some  one. 

Mrs.  M'Cormick  went  round  to  Greenley  Street,  and 
delivered  the  note. 

"  There  !  "  said  Desire,  when  she  had  read  it,  to  Bel 
Bree  who  was  in  the  room.  "  The  Providence  mail  is  in, 
early  ;  and  this  is  for  you." 

When  Bel  had  seen  what  it  was,  she  realized  suddenly 
that  Providence  had  taken  her  at  her  word.  She  was  in 
for  it  now ;  here  was  this  thing  for  her  to  do.  Her 
breath  shortened  with  the  thought  of  it,  as  with  a  sudden 
plunge  into  water.  Who  could  tell  how  it  would  turn 
out  ?  She  had  been  so  brave  in  counseling  and  urging 
others  ;  what  if  she  should  make  a  mistake  of  it,  herself  ? 


TROUBLE  AT  THE  SCHERMANS*.          347 

"  She  hasn't  anybody ;  she  would  take  Kate,  maybe. 
Kate  must  just  go.  It  won't  be  half  a  chance  to  try  it, 
if  I  can't  try  it  my  way." 

"  It  is  a  clear  stage,"  said  Desire  Ledwith.  "  If  you 
can  act  out  your  little  programme  anywhere,  you  can  act 
it  at  the  Schermans'." 

"  Is  it  a  cellar  kitchen  ?  " 

Bel  laughed  as  soon  as  she  had  asked  the  question. 
She  caught  herself  turning  catechetical  at  once,  after  the 
servant-girl  fashion. 

"  I  was  thinking  about  Kate.  But  I  don't  wonder  they 
inquire  about  things.  It's  a  question  of  home." 

"Of  course  it  is.  There  ought  to  be  questions,  —  on 
both  parts.  Every  fair  person  knows  that  is  fair.  Nei 
ther  side  ought  to  assume  the  pure  bestowal  of  a  favor. 
But  the  one  who  has  the  home  already  may  be  supposed 
to  consider  at  least  as  carefully  whom  she  will  take  in,  as 
she  who  comes  to  offer  service  as  an  equivalent.  I  believe 
it  is  a  cellar  kitchen ;  at  least,  a  basement.  The  house 
is  on  the  lower  side  ;  there  must  be  good  windows." 

"  I'll  go  right  round  for  Kate,  and  we'll  just  call  and 
see.  I  don't  know  in  the  least  how  to  begin  about  it 
when  I  get  there.  I  could  do  the  thing,  if  I  can  make 
out  the  first  understanding.  I  hope  Kate  won't  be  very 
Kate-y !  " 

She  said  so  to  Miss  Sencerbox  when  she  found  her. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid.  I'm  bound  to  astonish  some 
body.  Impertinence  wouldn't  do  that.  I  shall  strike 
out  a  new  line.  I'm  the  cook,  —  or  the  chambermaid,  — 
which  is  it  ?  that  they  haven't  had  any  of  before.  I  shall 
keep  my  sharp  relishes  for  our  own  private  table.  You 
might  discriminate,  Bel !  I  know  I've  got  a  kind  of  a 


348 


THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 


pert,  snappy-sounding  name,  —  just  like  the  outside  of 
me  ;  but  if  you  stop  to  look  at  it,  it  isn't  Saucebox,  but 
Sensebox!  They're  related,  sometimes,  and  they  ain't 
bad  together  ;  but  yet,  apart,  they're  different." 


MECHANICS'lNSTITUTt 
SAN  FRANCISCO. 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:  THE  TAKING  OF  JERUSALEM.    349 

CHAPTER   XXVII. 
BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE  :  THE  TAKING  OF  JERUSALEM. 

MRS.  FRANK  SCHERMAN'S  front  door-bell  rang. 
Of  course  she  had  to  go  down  and  open  it  herself. 
When  she  did  so,  she  let  in  two  girls  whose  pretty  faces, 
bright  with  a  sort  of  curious  expectation,  met  hers  in  a 
way  by  which  she  could  hardly  guess  their  station  or 
errand. 

She  did  not  know  them ;  they  might  be  anybody's 
daughters,  yet  they  hardly  looked  like  technical  "young 
ladies." 

They  stepped  directly  in  without  asking ;  they  moved 
aside  till  she  had  closed  the  door  against  the  keen  Novem 
ber  wind ;  then  Bel  said,  — 

"  We  came  to  see  what  help  you  wanted,  Mrs.  Scher- 
man.  Miss  Ledwith  told  us." 

How  did  Bel  know  so  quickly  that  it  was  Mrs.  Scher- 
man?  There  was  something  in  her  instant  conclusion 
and  her  bright  directness  that  amused  Asenath,  while  it 
bore  its  own  letter  of  recommendation  so  far. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  wished  to  inquire  for  yourselves, 
—  or  for  either  of  you  ?  "  she  asked,  as  she  led  the  way 
up-stairs. 

"  I  must  bring  you  up  where  the  children  are,"  she 
said.  "  I  cannot  leave  them." 

They  were  all  in  the  large  back  room,  with  western 
windows,  over  the  parlor.  The  doors  through  a  closet 
passage  stood  open  into  Mrs.  Scherman's  own.  There 
were  blocks,  and  linen  picture-books,  and  a  red  tin  wagon 


350  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

full  of  small  rag-dolls,  about  on  the  floor.  Baby  Karen 
was  rolled  up  in  a  blanket  on  the  middle  of  a  bed. 

"  You  see,  this  is  the  family,  —  except  Mr.  Scherman. 
I  want  two  good,  experienced  girls  for  general  work,  and 
another  to  help  me  here  in  the  nursery.  I  say  two  for 
general  work,  because  I  want  some  things  equally  divided, 
and  others  exchanged  willingly  upon  occasion.  Do  you 
want  places  for  yourselves  ?  " 

She  paused  to  repeat  the  question,  hardly  sure  of  the 
possibility.  These  girls  did  not  look  much  like  it.  There 
was  no  half-suspicious,  half-aggressive  expression  on  their 
faces  even  yet.  It  was  time  for  it ;  time  for  her  own 
cross-examination  to  begin,  according  to  all  precedent, 
if  they  were  really  looking  out  for  themselves.  Why 
didn't  they  sit  up  straight  and  firm,  with  their  hands  in 
their  muffs  and  their  eyes  on  hers,  and  say  with  a  rising 
inflection  and  lips  that  moved  as  little  as  possible, — 
"  What  wages,  mum  ?  "  or  "  What's  the  conveniences  — 
or  the  privileges  —  mum  ?  " 

Bel  Bree  had  got  her  arm  round  little  Sinsie,  who  had 
crept  up  to  her  side  inquisitively  ;  and  Kate  was  making  a 
funny  face  over  her  shoulder  at  Marmaduke,  alternately 
with  the  pleased  attentive  glance  she  gave  Nto  his  pretty 
young  mother  and  her  speaking. 

"  Yes'm,"  Bel  answered.  "  We  want  places.  We 
are  sewing-girls.  We  have  lost  our  work  by  the  fire, 
and  we  were  getting  tired  of  it  before.  We  have  made 
up  our  minds  to  try  families.  We  want  a  real  place  to 
live,  you  see.  And  we  want  to  go  together,  so  as  to 
make  our  own  place.  We  mightn't  like  things  just  as 
they  happened,  where  there  was  others." 

Mrs.  Scherman's  own  face  lighted  up  afresh.  This 
was  something  that  did  not  happen  every  day.  She 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE  :  THE  TAKING  OF  JERUSALEM.     351 

grew  cordial  with  a  pleased  surprise.  "  Do  you  think 
you  could  ?  Do  you  know  about  housework,  about  cook- 
ing?" 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  put  it  in  that  way,"  said 
Kate  Sencerbox.  "  We  just  do  know  about  it,  and  per 
haps  that's  all,  at  present.  But  we're  Yankees,  and  we 
mean  to  know." 

"  And  you  would  like  to  experiment  with  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  be  altogether  experiment,  from  the 
very  beginning,"  said  Bel.  "  I'm  sure  I  can  make  good 
bread,  and  tea,  and  toast,  and  broil  chickens  or  steaks ; 
I  can  stew  up  sauces,  I  can  do  oysters.  I  can  make  a 
splendid  huckleberry  pudding  !  We  had  one  every  Sun 
day  all  last  August." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Asenath,  gravely. 

"  In  our  room  ;  Aunt  Blin  and  I.  Aunt  Blin  died  just 
after  the  fire,"  said  Bel,  simply. 

Asenath's  gravity  grew  sweeter  and  more  real;  the 
tremulous  twinkle  quieted  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  answer  you,  exactly,"  she  said, 
presently.  "  This  is  just  what  we  housekeepers  have 
been  saying  ought  to  happen  ;  and  now  that  it  does  hap 
pen,  I  feel  afraid  of  taking  you  in.  It  is  very  odd ;  but 
the  difficulties  on  your  side  begin  to  come  to  me.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  on  my  side  it  would  be  lovely.  But  have 
you  thought  about  this  '  real  place  to  live  '  that  you  want  ? 
what  it  would  have  to  be  ?  Do  you  think  you  would  be 
contented  in  a  kitchen  ?  And  the  washing  ?  Our  wash 
ings  are  so  large,  with  all  these  little  children  I  " 

Yes,  it  was  odd.  Without  waiting  to  be  catechised, 
or  resenting  beforehand  the  spirit  of  jealous  inquiry, 
Asenath  Scherman  was  frankly  putting  it  in  the  heads  of 
these  unused  applicants  that  there  might  be  doubts  as  to 
her  service  suiting  them. 


352  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  I  suppose  we  could  do  anything  reasonable,"  said 
Kate  Sencerbox. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  reasonable  !  "  said  Mrs.  Scherman. 
"  Mr.  Scherman  has  six  shirts  a  week,  and  the  children's 
things  count  up  fearfully,  and  the  ironing  is  nice  work. 
I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  think  you  had  any  time  left  for 
living.  The  clothes  hardly  ever  all  come  up  before 
Thursday  morning." 

"  And  the  cooking  and  all  are  just  the  same  those 
days  ?  "  asked  Kate. 

44  Why  yes,  pretty  nearly,  except  just  Mondays.  Mon 
day  always  has  to  be  rather  awful.  But  after  that,  we 
do  expect  to  live.  We  couldn't  hold  our  breaths  till 
Thursday." 

"  I  guess  there's  something  that  isn't  quite  reasonable, 
somewhere,"  said  Kate.  "  But  I  don't  think  it's  you, 
Mrs.  Scherman,  not  meaningly.  I  wonder  if  two  or  three 
sensible  people  couldn't  straighten  it  out  ?  There  ought 
to  be  a  way.  The  nursery  girl  helps,  doesn't  she  ?  " 

"  Yes.  She  does  the  baby's  things.  But  while  baby 
is  so  little,  I  can't  spare  her  for  much  more.  With  doing 
them,  and  her  own  clothes,  I  don't  seem  to  have  her  more 
than  half  the  time,  now." 

Kate  Sencerbox  sat  still,  considering. 

Bel  Bree  was  afraid  that  was  the  last  of  it.  In  that 
one  still  minute  she  could  almost  feel  her  beautiful  plan 
crumbling,  by  little  bits,  like  a  heap  of  sand  in  a  minute- 
glass,  away  into  the  opposite  end  where  things  had  been 
before,  with  nobody  to  turn  them  upside  down  again. 
Which  was  upside  down,  or  right  side  up  ? 

She  had  not  thought  a  word  about  big,  impossible 
washings. 

Kate  spoke  out  at  last. 


THE  TAKING  OF  JERUSALEM.   353 

"  Every  one  brings  the  work  of  one,  you  see,"  she 
said. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  wish  there  needn't  be  any  nursery  girl." 

Mrs.  Scherman  lifted  her  eyebrows  in  utter  amaze. 
The  suggestion  to  the  ordinary  Irish  mind  would  have 
been,  as  she  had  already  experienced,  another  nurse ; 
certainly  not  the  dispensing  with  that  official  altogether. 
,  "  What  wages  do  you  pay,  Mrs.  Scherman  ?  "  was 
Kate's  next  question.  It  came,  evidently  in  the  pro 
cess  of  a  reasoning  calculation ;  not,  as  usual,  with  the 
grasping  of  demand. 

"  Four  dollars  to  the  cook.     Which  is  the  cook?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  we  know  yet,"  answered  Bel  Bree, 
laughing  in  the  glee  of  her  recovering  spirits.  "  But  I 
think  it  would  probably  be  me.  Kate  can  make  molasses 
candy,  but  she  hasn't  had  the  chance  for  much  else.  And 
I  should  like  to  have  the  kitchen  in  my  charge.  I  feel 
responsible  for  the  home-iness  of  it,  for  I  started  the 
plan." 

With  that  covert  suggestion  and  encouragement,  she 
stopped,  leaving  the  lead  to  Kate  again. 

Kate  Sencerbox  was  as  earnest  as  a  judge. 

"How  much  to  the  others  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Three  dollars  each." 

"  That's  ten  dollars  a  week.  Now,  if  you  only  had 
Bel  and  me,  and  paid  us  three  or  three  and  a  half  a  piece, 
couldn't  you  put  out  —  say,  five  dollars'  worth  of  fine 
washing  ?  Wouldn't  the  nurse's  board  and  wages  come 
to  that  ?  And  I'd  engage  to  help  with  the  baby  as  much 
as  you  say  you  get  helped  now." 

"  But  you  would  want  some  time  to  yourself  ?  " 

"  Babies  can't  be  awake  all  the  time.    I  guess  I  should 

28 


354  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

get  it.  I've  never  had  anything  but  evenings,  so  far. 
The  thing  is,  Mrs.  Scherman,  if  I  can  try  this  anywhere, 
I  can  try  it  here.  I  don't  suppose  people  have  got  tilings 
fixed  just  as  they  would  have  been  if  there'd  always  been 
a  home  all  over  the  house.  If  we  go  to  live  with  anybody, 
we  mean  to  make  it  living  in,  not  living  out.  And  we 
shall  find  out  ways  as  we  j^o  along,  —  all  round.  If 
you're  willing,  we  are.  It's  Bel's  idea,  not  mine  ;  though 
she's  let  me  take  it  to  myself,  and  do  the  talking.  I  sup 
pose  because  she  thought  I  should  be  the  hardest  of  the 
two  to  be  suited.  And  so  I  am.  I  didn't  believe  in  it 
at  first.  But  I  begin  to  see  into  it ;  and  I've  got  inter 
ested.  I'd  like  to  work  it  out  on  this  line,  now.  Then  I 
shall  know." 

There  were  not  many  more  words  after  that ;  there  did 
not  need  to  be.  Mrs.  Scherman  engaged  them  to  come, 
at  once,  for  three  dollars  and  a  half  a  week  each. 

"  It's  a  kind  of  a  kitchen  gospel,"  said  Bel  Bree,  as 
they  walked  up  Summit  Street.  "  And  it's  got  to  come 
from  the  girls.  What  can  the  poor  ladies  do,  up  in  their 
nurseries,  with  their  big  houses,  full  of  everything,  on 
their  hands,  and  the  servants  dictating  and  clearing  out  ? 
They  can't  say  their  souls  are  their  own.  They  can't 
plan  their  work,  or  say  how  many  they'll  have  to  do  it. 
The  more  they  have,  the  more  they'll  have  to  have.  It 
ain't  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scherman,  and  those  two  little  chil 
dren, —  or  two  and  a  half ,  —  that  makes  all  the  to-do. 
Every  girl  they  get  makes  the  dinners  more,  and  the  Mon 
days  heavier.  Why,  the  family  grows  faster  down-stairs 
than  up,  with  a  nurse  for  every  baby !  Think  of  the 
tracking  and  travelling,  the  wear  and  tear.  Every  one 
makes  work  for  one,  and  dirt  for  two.  It's  taking  in  a 
regiment  down  below,  and  laying  the  trouble  all  off  on  to 


the  poor  little  last  baby  tip-stairs  !  And  the  ladies  don't 
see  through  it.  They  just  keep  getting  another  parlor 
girl,  or  door  girl,  or  nursery  girl,  and  wondering  that 
the  things  don't  grow  easier.  It's  like  that  queer  rule  in 
arithmetic  about  fractions,  —  where  dividing  and  multi 
plying  get  all  mixed  up,  and  you  can't  hold  on  to  the 
reason  why,  in  your  mind,  long  enough  to  look  at  it." 

"  Why  didn't  you  go  down  and  see  the  kitchen  ?  " 

"  Because,  how  could  she  leave  those  tots  to  take  care 
of  themselves  while  she  showed  us  ?  Our  minds  were 
made  up.  You  said  just  the  truth  ;  if  we  can  try  it  any 
where,  we  can  try  it  there.  And  whatever  the  kitchen 
is,  it's  only  our  place  to  begin  on.  We'll  have  it  all 
right,  or  something  near  it,  before  we've  been  there  a 
fortnight.  It's  only  a  room  we  take,  where  the  work  is 
given  in  to  do.  If  we  had  one  anywhere  else,  we  should 
expect  to  fix  up  and  settle  in  it  according  to  our  own 
notions,  and  why  not  there  ?  We're  rent  free,  and  paid 
for  our  work.  I'm  going  to  have  things  of  my  own  ; 
personal  property.  If  I  want  a  chandelier,  I'll  save  up 
and  get  one  ;  only  I  sha'n't  want  it.  There's  wa*ys  to  con 
trive,  Kate  ;  and  real  fun  doing  it." 

An  hour  afterward,  they  were  on  their  way  back,  with 
their  leather  bags. 

Baby  Karen  was  asleep,  and  Mrs.  Scherman  came  down 
stairs  to  let  them  in  again,  with  Marmaduke  holding  to 
her  hand,  and  Sinsie  hopping  along  behind.  They  all 
went  into  the  kitchen  together. 

Mrs.  McCormick  had  "  cleared  it  up,"  so  that  there 
was  at  least  a  surface  tidiness  and  cheerfulness.  The 
floor  was  freshly  scrubbed,  the  table-tops  scoured  down, 
the  fire  made,  and  the  gas  lighted.  Mrs.  McCormick  had 
gone  home,  to  be  ready  for  her  own  husband  and  her  two 


356  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  boys  "  when  they  should  come  in  from  their  work  to 
their  suppers. 

The  kitchen  was  in  an  L  ;  there  were  two  windows  look 
ing  out  upon  a  bricked  yard.  Bel  Bree  kept  the  points  of 
the  compass  in  her  head. 

"  Those  are  south  windows,"  said  she.  "  We  can  have 
plants  in  them.  And  it's  real  nice  their  opening  out  on 
a  level." 

Forward,  the  house  ran  underground.  They  used  the 
front  basement  for  a  store-room.  Above  the  kitchen,  in 
the  L,  was  the  dining-room.  A  short,  separate  flight  of 
stairs  led  to  it ;  also  a  dumb  waiter  ran  up  and  down 
between  china  closet  and  kitchen  pantry.  Both  kitchen 
and  dining-room  were  small ;  the  L  had  only  the  width 
of  the  hall  and  the  additional  space  to  where  the  first 
window  opened  in  the  western  wall. 

In  one  corner  of  the  kitchen  were  set  tubs ;  a  long 
cover  slid  over  them,  and  formed  a  sideboard.  Opposite, 
beside  the  fire-place,  were  sink  and  boiler ;  between  the 
windows,  a  white-topped  table.  There  were  four  dark 
painted  wooden  chairs.  A  clock  over  the  table,  and  a 
rolling-towel  beside  the  sink ;  green  Holland  window- 
shades  ;  these  were  the  only  adornments  and  drapery. 
There  was  a  closet  at  each  end  of  the  room. 

"  Will  you  go  up  to  your  room  now,  or  wait  till  after 
tea?"  asked  Mrs.  Scherrnan. 

"  We  might  take  up  our  things,  now,"  said  Bel,  look 
ing  round  at  the  four  chairs.  "  They  would  be  in  the 
way  here,  perhaps." 

Kate  took  up  her  bag  from  the  table. 

"We  can  find  the  room,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  direct 
us." 

"  Up  three  flights ;   two  from   the  dining-room  ;   the 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:  THE  TAKING  OF  JERUSALEM.     357 

back  chamber.  You  can  stop  at  my  room  as  you  come 
down,  and  we  will  think  about  tea.  Mr.  Scherman  will 
soon  be  home ;  and  I  should  like  to  surprise  him  with 
something  very  comfortable." 

The  girls  found  their  way  up-stairs. 

The  room,  when  they  reached  it,  looked  pleasant, 
though  bare.  The  sun  had  gone  below  the  horizon, 
beyond  the  river  which  they  could  not  see ;  but  the  west 
ern  light  still  shone  in  across  the  roofs.  There  were 
window-seats  in  the  two  windows,  uncushioned.  A 
square  of  clean,  but  faded  carpet  was  laid  down  before 
the  bed  and  reached  to  the  table,  —  simple  maple-stained 
pine,  uncovered,  —  that  stood  beneath  a  looking-glass  in 
a  maple  frame,  between  the  windows.  There  were  three 
maple-stained  chairs  in  the  room.  A  door  into  a  good, 
deep  closet  stood  open  ;  there  was  a  low  grate  in  the  chim 
ney,  unused  of  course,  with  no  fire-irons  about  it,  and 
some  scraps  of  refuse  thrown  into  it  and  left  there  ;  this 
was  the  only  actual  untidiness  about  the  room,  where 
there  was  not  the  first  touch  of  cosiness  or  comfort.  The 
only  depth  of  color  was  in  a  heavy  woven  dark-blue  and 
white  counterpane  upon  the  bed. 

"  Now,  Kate  Sencerbox,  shut  up  !  "  said  Bel  Bree,  turn 
ing  round  upon  her,  after  the  first  comprehensive  glance, 
as  Kate  came  in  last,  and  closed  the  door. 

Kate  put  her  muff  down  on  the  bed,  folded  her  hands 
meekly,  and  looked  at  Bel  with  a  mischievous  air  that 
said  plainly  enough  "  Ain't  I  ?  "  and  which  she  would  not 
falsify  by  speech. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  are  ;  but  —  stay  shut  up  !  All  this 
isn't  as  it  is  a  going  to  be,  —  though  it's  not  bad  even 
now ! " 

Kate  resolutely  stayed  shut  up. 


358  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  You  see  that  carpet  is  just  put  there  ;  within  this  last 
hour,  I  dare  say.  Look  at  the  clean  ravel  in  the  end. 
They've  taken  away  the  old,  tramped  one.  That's  a 
a  piece  out  of  saved-up  spare  ends  of  breadths,  left  after 
some  turn-round  or  make-over,  I  know  !  It's  faded,  and 
it's  homely  ;  but  it's  spandy  clean !  I  sha'n't  let  it  stay 
raveled  long.  And  I've  got  things.  Just  wait  till  my 
trunk  comes.  My  ottoman,  I  mean.  That's  what  it 
turns  into.  Have  you  got  a  stuffed  cover  to  your  trunk, 
Katie?" 

Kate  lifted  up  her  eyebrows  for  permission  to  break 
silence. 

"  Of  course  you  can,  when  you're  asked  a  question. 
You've  had  time  now  for  second  thoughts.'  I  wasn't 

O 

going  to  let  you  fly  right  out  with  discouragements." 

"  It  is  you  that  flies  out  with  taking  for  gran  teds,"  said 
Kate  Sencerbox,  in  a  subdued  monotone  of  quietness.  "  I 
was  only  going  to  remark  that  we  had  got  neither  cellar 
windows,  nor  attic  skylights  after  all.  I'm  favorably  sur 
prised  with  the  accommodations.  I've  paid  four  dollars 
a  week  for  a  great  deal  worse.  And  I  wouldn't  cast  re 
flections  by  arguing  objections  that  haven't  been  made,  if 
I  were  the  leader  of  this  enterprise,  Miss  Bree." 

"  Kate  !  That's  what  I  call  real  double  lock-stitch 
pluck  !  That  goes  back  of  everything.  You  needn't  shut 
up  any  more.  Now  let's  come  down  and  see  about 
supper." 

They  had  pinned  on  linen  aprons,  with  three-cornered 
bibs  ;  such  as  they  wore  at  their  machines.  When  they 
came  down  into  Mrs.  Scherman's  room,  that  young  matron 
said  within  herself,  —  "I  wonder  if  it's  real  or  if  we're  in 
a  charade  !  At  any  rate,  we'll  have  a  real  tea  in  the  play. 
They  do  sometimes." 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE:  THE  TAKING  OF  JERUSALEM.     359 

"  What  is  the  nicest,  and  quickest,  and  easiest  thing 
to  get,  I  wonder  ?  "  she  asked  of  her  waiting  ministers. 
"  Don't  say  toast.  We're  so  tired  of  toast !  " 

"Do  you  like  muffins  and  stewed  oysters  ?  "  asked  Bel 
Bree,  drawing  upon  her  best  experience. 

"  Very  much,"  Mrs.  Scherman  answered. 

And  Kate,  looking  sharply  on,  delighted  herself  with 
the  guarded  astonishment  that  widened  the  lady's  beauti 
ful  eyes. 

"  Only  we  have  neither  muffins  nor  oysters  in  the  house  ; 
and  the  grocery  and  the  fish-market  are  down  round  the 
corner,  in  Selchar  Street." 

"  I  could  go  for  them  right  off.  What  time  do  you 
have  tea  ?  " 

Really,  Asenath  Scherman  had  never  acted  in  a  charade 
where  her  cues  were  so  unexpected. 

"  I  wonder  if  I'm  getting  mixed  up  again,"  she  thought. 
"  Which  is  the  cook  ?  " 

Of  course  a  cook  never  would  have  offered  to  go  out 
and  order  muffins  and  oysters.  Mrs.  Scherman  could  not 
have  asked  it  of  the  parlor-maid. 

Kate  Sencerbox  relieved  her. 

u  I'll  go,  Bel,"  she  interposed.  "  I  guess  it's  my  place. 
That  is;  if  you  like,  Mrs.  Scherman." 

"  I  like  it  exceedingly,"  said  Asenath,  congratulating 
herself  upon  the  happy  inspiration  of  her  answer,  which 
was  not  surprise  nor  thanks,  but  cordial  and  pleased 
enough  for  either.  "  The  shops  are  next  each  other,  just 
beyond  Filbert  Street.  Have  the  things  charged  to  Mrs. 
Francis  Scherman.  A  quart  of  oysters,  —  and  how  many 
muffins  ?  A  dozen  I  think  ;  then  if  there  are  two  or  three 
left,  they'll  be  nice  for  breakfast.  They  will  send  them 
up.  Say  that  we  want  them  directly." 


360  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  I  can  bring  the  muffins.  I  suppose  they'll  want  the 
oyster-can  back." 

It  may  be  a  little  doubtful  whether  Kate's  spirit  of 
supererogatory  doing  would  have  gone  so  far,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  deliciousness  of  piling  up  the  wonder.  She 
retreated,  upon  the  word,  magnanimously,  remitting  fur 
ther  reply ;  and  Bel  directly  after  descended  to  her  kitchen, 
to  make  the  needful  investigations  among  saucepans  and 
toasters. 

"  Don't  be  frightened  at  anything  you  may  find,"  Mrs. 
Scherman  said  to  her  as  she  went.  "  I  won't  answer  for 
the  insides  of  cupboards  and  pans.  But  we  will  make  it 
all  right  as  fast  as  possible.  You  shall  have  help  if  you 
need  it ;  and  at  the  worst,  we  can  throw  away  and  get 
new,  you  know.  Suppose,  Bel,"  she  added,  with  enchant 
ing  confidence  and  accustomedness,  we  were  to  have  a  cup 
of  coffee  with  the  oysters  ?  There  is  some  real  Mocha  in 
the  japanned  canister  in  the  china  closet,  and  there  are 
eggs  in  the  pantry,  to  clear  with ;  you  know  how  ?  Mr. 
Scherman  is  so  fond  of  coffee." 

Bel  knew  how  ;  and  Bel  assented.  As  the  door  closed 
after  her,  below  stairs,  Mrs.  Scherman  caught  up  Sinsie 
into  her  lap,  and  gave  her  a  great  congratulatory  hug. 

u  Do  you  suppose  it  will  last,  little  womanie  ?  If  it 
isn't  all  gone  in  the  morning,  what  comfort  we'll  have  in 
keeping  house  and  taking  care  of  baby  !  " 

The  daughter  is  so  soon  the  "  little  womanie  "  to  the 
mother's  loving  anticipation  ! 

Marmaduke  was  lustily  struggling  with  and  shouting 
to  a  tin  horse  six  inches  long,  and  tipping  up  a  cart  filled 
with  small  pebbles  on  the  carpet.  He  was  outside  already  ; 
the  housekeeping  was  nothing  to  him,  except  as  it  had  to 
do  with  the  getting  in  of  coals. 


BEL  BREE'S  CRUSADE  :  THE  TAKING  OF  JERUSALEM.     361 

When  Mr.  Sclierman  opened  the  front  door,  the  deli 
cious  aroma  of  oysters  and  coffee  saluted  his  chilled  and 
hungry  senses.  He  wondered  if  there  were  unexpected 
company,  and  what  Asenath  could  have  done  about  it. 
He  passed  the  parlor  door  cautiously,  but  there  was  no 
sound  of  voices.  Up-stairs,  all  was  still ;  the  children 
were  in  crib  and  cradle,  and  Asenath  was  shaking  and 
folding  little  garments,  —  shapes  out  of  which  the  busy 
spirits  had  slidden. 

He  came  up  behind  her,  where  she  stood  before  the  fire. 

"  All  well,  little  mother?  "  he  questioned.  "  Or  tired 
to  death  ?  There  are  festive  odors  in  the  house.  Has 
anybody  repented  and  come  back  again  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  "  Sin  exclaimed  triumphantly,  turn 
ing  round  and  facing  him,  all  rosy  with  the  loving  romp 
she  had  been  having  just  a  little  while  before  with  her 
babies.  "  Frank !  I've  got  a  pair  of  Abraham's  angels 
down-stairs  !  Or  Mrs.  Abraham's,  —  if  she  ever  had 
any.  I  don't  remember  that  they  used  to  send  them  to 
women  much,  now  I  think  of  it,  after  Eve  demeaned  her 
self  to  entertain  the  old  serpent.  Ah !  the  babies  came 
instead ;  that  was  it !  Well ;  there  is  a  couple  in  the 
kitchen  now,  at  any  rate  ;  and  they're  toasting  and  stew 
ing  in  the  most  E — ?#sian  manner  I  That's  what  you 
smell." 

"  Angeb  ?  Babies  ?  What  terrible  ambiguity  ! 
What,  or  who,  is  stewing,  if  you  please,  dear  ?  " 

"  Muffins.  No  !  oysters.  There  !  you  sha'n't  know 
anything  about  it  till  you  go  down  to  tea.  But  the 
millennium's  come,  and  it's  begun  in  our  house." 

"  I  knew  that,  six  years  ago,"  said  Frank  Scherman. 
"  There  are  exactly  nine  hundred  and  ninety-four  left  of 
it.  I  can  wait  till  tea-time  with  the  patience  of  the 
saints." 


362  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


DESIRE  LEDWITH  went  over  to  Leicester  Place 
with  Bel  Bree,  when  she  returnee^  there  for  the  first 
needful  sorting  and  packing  and  removing.  Bel  could 
not  go  alone,  to  risk  any  meeting  ;  to  put  herself,  volun 
tarily  and  unprotected  in  the  way  again.  Miss  Ledwith 
took  a  carriage  and  called  for  her.  In  that  manner  they 
could  bring  away  nearly  all.  What  remained  could  be 
sent  for. 

Miss  Smalley  possessed  some  movables  of  her  own, 
though  the  furnishings  in  her  room  had  been  mostly  Mrs. 
Pimminy's.  There  were  some  things  of  her  aunt's  that 
Bel  would  like,  and  which  she  had  asked  leave  to  bring  to 
Mrs.  Scherman's. 

The  light,  round  table,  with  its  old  fashioned  slender 
legs  and  claw  feet,  its  red  cloth,  and  the  books  and  little 
ornaments,  Bel  wanted  in  her  sleeping-room.  "  Because 
they  were  Aunt  Blin's,"  she  said,  "and  nothing  else 
would  seem  so  pleasant.  She  should  like  to  take  them 
with  her  wherever  she  went." 

The  two  trunks  —  hers  and  Katy's  —  (Bel  had  Aunt 
Blin's  great  flat-topped  one  now,  with  its  cushion  and 
flounce  of  Turkey  red ;  and  Kate  had  speedily  stitched 
up  a  cover  for  hers  to  match,  of  cloth  that  Mrs.  Scherman 
gave  her)  stood  one  each  side  the  chimney, — in  the  re 
cesses.  A  red  and  white  patchwork  quilt,  done  in  stars, 
Bel's  own  work  before  she  ever  came  to  Boston,  lay  folded 
across  the  foot  of  the  bed,  in  patriotic  contrast  with  the 


blue, — reversing  the  colors  in  stars  and  stripes.  Bel 
had  found  in  the  attic  a  discarded  stairway  drugget, 
scarlet  and  black,  of  which  the  centre  was  worn  to 
threads,  but  the  bright  border  still  remained  ;  and  this 
she  had  asked  for  and  sewed  around  the  square  of  neutral 
tinted  carpet,  upon  whose  middle  the  round  table  stood, 
covering  its  dullness  with  red  again,  the  color  of  the 
cloth.  There  was  plenty  of  bordering  left,  of  which  she 
pieced  a  foot-mat  for  the  floor  before  the  dressing-glass  ; 
and  in  the  open  grate  now  lay  a  little  unlighted  pile  of 
kindlings  and  coals,  as  carefully  placed  behind  well  black 
ened  bars  and  a  facing  of  paper,  as  that  in  the  parlor  be 
low. 

"It  looks  nice,"  Bel  said  to  Mrs.  Scherman,  "  and  we 
don't  expect  to  light  it,  unless  one  of  us  is  sick,  or  some 
thing." 

"  Light  it  whenever  you  wish  for  it,"  Mrs.  Scherman 
had  replied.  "  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  trust  your  rea 
sonableness  for  that." 

So  on  Sunday  afternoons,  or  of  a  bitter  cold  morning, 
they  had  their  own  little  blaze  to  sit  or  dress  by  ;  and  it 
made  the  difference  of  a  continual  feeling  of  cheeriness 
and  comfort  to  them,  always  possible  when  not  immedi 
ately  actual ;  and  of  a  bushel  or  two  of  coal,  perhaps,  in 
the  winter's  supply  of  fuel. 

"  Where  were  the  babies  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  —  and 
how  about  the  offered  tending  ?  " 

C> 

This  was  one  more  place  for  them  also  ;  a  treat  and  a 
change  to  Sinsie  and  Marmaduke,  or  a  perfectly  safe  and 
sweet  and  comfortable  resource  in  tending  Baby  Karen, 
who  would  lie  content  on  the  soft  quilts  by  the  half  hour, 
feeling  in  the  blind,  ignorant  way  that  little  babies  cer 
tainly  do,  the  novelty  and  rest. 


364  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

The  household,  you  see,  was  melting  into  one  ;  the 
spirit  of  home  was  above  and  below.  It  was  home  as 
much  as  wages,  that  these  girls  had  come  for  ;  and  they 
expected  to  help  make  it.  Not  that  they  parted  with 
their  own  individual  lives  and  interests,  either  ;  every 
one  must  have  things  that  are  separate ;  it  is  the  way 
human  souls  and  lives  are  made.  It  would  have  been  so 
with  daughters,  or  sisters.  But  in  a  true  living,  it  is  the 
individual  interests  that  at  once  aggregate  and  specialize  ; 
it  is  a  putting  into  the  common  stock  that  which  must 
be  distinct  and  real  that  it  may  be  put  in  at  all.  It  was 
not  money  and  goods  alone,  that  the  early  Christians  had 
in  common. 

Instead  of  a  part  of  their  house  being  foreign  and  dis 
tasteful,  — tolerated  through  necessity  only,  that  the 
rest  might  be  ministered  to,  —  there  was  a  region  in  it, 
now,  of  new,  extended  family  pleasure.  "  It  was  as 
good  as  building  out  a  conservatory,  or  a  billiard-room," 
Asenath  said.  "  It  was  just  so  much  more  to  enjoy." 

There  was  a  little  old  rocking-chair,  railed  round  till  it 
was  almost  like  a  basket,  with  just  a  break  in  the  front 
palings  to  sit  into.  It  had  a  soft  down  cushion,  covered 
with  a  damask  patterned  patch  of  wild  and  divaricating 
device  ;  and  its  rockers  were  short,  giving  a  jerk  and 
thud  if  you  leaned  to  and  fro  in  it,  like  the  trot  an  old 
nurse  gives  a  child  in  an  ordinary,  four-legged,  impracti 
cable  seat.  All  the  better  for  that ;  the  rockers  were 
not  in  the  way  ;  and  all  Aunt  Blin  had  wanted  of  it  as  a 
sewing  chair,  was  to  tip  conveniently,  as  she  might  wish 
to  bend  and  reach,  to  pick  up  scissors  or  spool,  or  draw  to 
herself  any  of  those  surroundings  of  part,  pattern,  or 
material,  which  are  sure,  at  the  moment  one  wants  them, 
to  be  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 


365 

Bel  brought  this  away  from  Leicester  Place,  and  had  it 
in  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Scherman,  then  seeing  that  there 
remained  for  Kate  only  -the  choice  of  the  four  wooden 
chairs,  and  pleased  with  the  cosy  expression  they  were 
causing  to  pervade  their  precincts,  suggested  their  mak 
ing  space  for  a  short,  broad  lounge  that  she  would  spare 
to  them  from  an  upper  room  which  was  hardly  ever  used. 
It  was  an  old  one  that  she  had  had  sent  from  home 
among  some  other  things  that  were  reminiscences,  when 
her  father  and  mother,  the  second  year  after  her  marriage, 
had  broken  up  their  household  in  New  York,  and  resolved 
on  a  holiday,  late  in  life,  in  Europe.  It  was  a  comfort 
able,  shabby  old  thing,  that  she  had  used  to  curl  up  on  to 
learn  her  German,  with  the  black  kitten  in  her  lap,  and 
the  tip  of  its  tail  for  a  pointer.  She  had  always  meant 
to  cover  it  new,  but  had  never  had  time.  There  was  a 
large  gray  travelling  shawl  folded  over  it  now,  making 
extra  padding  for  back  and  seat,  and  the  thick  fringe  fell 
below,  a  garnishing  along  the  front. 

"  Let  it  be,"  said  Asenath.  u  I  don't  think  you'll  set 
the  soup-kettle  or  the  roasting-pan  down  on  it ;  and  you 
can  always  shake  it  out  fresh  and  make  it  comfortable. 
It  was  only  getting  full  of  dust  up-stairs.  There's  a 
square  pillow  in  the  trunk-room  that  you  can  have  too, 
and  cover  with  something.  A  five  minutes'  level  rest  is 
nice,  between  times,  I  know.  I  wonder  I  never  thought 
of  it  before." 

How  would  Bel  or  Kate  have  ever  got  a  "  five  minutes' 
level  rest,"  over  their  machine-driving  at  Fillmer  & 
Bylles  ?  Bel  had  said  well,  that  girls  and  women  need 
to  work  under  cover ;  in  a  home,  where  they  can  "  rest 
by  snatches."  A  mere  roof  is  not  a  cover ;  there  may 
be  driving  afield  in  a  great  warehouse,  as  well  as  out 
upon  a  plantation. 


366  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

The.  last  touch  and  achievement  was  more  of  the  dun- 
gray  carpet,  like  that  in  their  bedroom,  and  more  of  the 
scarlet  and  black  stair-border,  .made  into  a  rug,  which 
was  spread  down  when  work  was  over,  and  rolled  up 
under  the  table  when  dinner  was  to  dish,  or  a  wash  was 
going  on.  They  had  been  with  Mrs.  Scherman  a  month 
before  they  ventured  upon  that  asking. 

When  it  was  finished,  Sin  brought  her  husband  down 
after  tea  one  night,  to  look  at  it. 

"  It  is  the  most  fascinating  room  in  the  house,"  she 
said. 

There  was  a  side  gas-light  over  the  white-topped  table, 
burning  brightly.  Upon  the  table  were  work-baskets, 
and  a  volume  from  the  Public  Library.  The  lounge  was 
just  turned  out  from  the  wall  a  little,  towards  it,  and 
opposite  stood  the  round  rocking-chair.  Cheeps,  in  his 
cage  at  the  farther  window,  was  asleep  in  a  yellow  ball, 
his  head  under  his  wing.  Bel  was  hanging  the  last  dish- 
towel  upon  a  little  folding-horse  in  the  chimney  corner, 
and  they  could  hear  Kate  singing  up-stairs  to  a  gentle 
clatter  of  the  dishes  that  she  was  putting  away  from  the 
dining-room  use. 

"  It  looks  as  a  kitchen  ought  to,"  said  Mr.  Scherman. 
"  As  my  grandmother's  used  to  look  ;  as  if  all  the  house- 
comfort  came  from  it." 

"It  isn't  a  place  to  forbid  children  out  of,  is  it?" 
asked  Asenath. 

"  I  should  think  the  only  condition  would  be  their  own 
best  behavior,"  returned  her  husband. 

"  They're  almost  always  good  down  here,"  said  Bel. 
"  Children  like  to  be  where  things  are  doing.  They 
always  feel  put  away,  out  of  the  good  times,  I  think,  in 
a  nursery." 


"  LIVING   IX."  367 

"  My  housekeeping  is  all  turning  round  on  a  new 
pivot,"  said  Sin  to  Frank,  after  they  were  seated  again 
up-stairs.  "  Don't  take  up  the  '  Skelligs  '  yet ;  I  want 
to  tell  you.  If  I  thought  the  pivot  would  really  stay, 
there  are  two  or  three  more  things  I  should  do.  And  one 

of  them   is,  —  I'd  have  the  nursery  —  a  day-nursery 

down -stairs  ;  that  is,  if  I  could  coax  you  into  it." 

"  It  seems  the  new  pivot  is  two  very  large  '  ifs,'  "  said 
Frank,  laughing.  "  And  not  much  space  to  turn  in, 
either.  Would  you  take  the  cellar,  or  build  out?  And 
if  so,  where  ?  " 

"I'd  take  the  dining-room,  Frank;  and  eat  in  the 
back  parlor." 

"  I  wish  you  would.  I  don't  like  dining-rooms.  I  was 
brought  up  to  a  back  parlor." 

"You  do?  You  don't?  You  were?  Why,  Frank,  I 
thought  you'd  hate  it,"  cried  Asenath,  pouring  forth  her 
exclamations  all  in  a  heap,  and  coming  round  to  lean 
upon  his  shoulder.  "  I  wish  I'd  told  you  before  !  Just 
think  of  those  south  dining-room  windows  that  they'll 
have  the  good  of  all  the  forenoon,  and  that  all  we  do 
with  is  to  shade  them  down  at  dinner-time  !  And  the 
horse-chestnut  tree,  and  the  grape-vines,  making  it  green 
and  pleasant,  by  and  by  !  And  the  saving  of  going  over 
the  stairs,  and  the  times  one  of  the  girls  might  help  me, 
when  I  couldn't  ring  her  away  up  to  my  room ;  and  the 
tending  of  table,  with  baby  only  to  be  looked  after  in 
here.  Why,  I  should  sit  here,  myself,  mornings,  always  ; 
and  everything  would  be  all  together ;  and  the  up-stairs 
work,  —  it  would  be  better  than  two  nurse-girls  to  have 
it  so !  " 

"  Then  why  not  have  it  so  right  off  ?    The   more  you 
turn  on  your   pivot,   the   smoother   it   gets,    you  know. 


368  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

And  the  more  nicely  you  balance  and  concentrate,  the 
longer  your  machine  will  last." 

Asenath  lay  awake  late,  and  woke  early,  that  night 
and  the  next  morning,  "  planning." 

When  Frank  saw  a  certain  wide,  intent,  shining, 
"  don't-speak-to-me  "  look  in  her  eyes,  he  always  knew 
that  she  was  "  planning."  And  he  had  found  that  out  of 
her  plans  almost  always  resulted  some  charming  novelty, 
at  least,  that  gave  one  the  feeling  of  beginning  life 
over  again ;  if  it  were  only  the  putting  of  his  bureau  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  so  that  he  started  the  wrong 
way  for  a  few  days,  whenever  he  wanted  to  get  a  clean 
collar  ;  or  the  setting  the  bedstead  with  side  instead  of 
head  to  the  wall ;  issuing  in  delightful  bewilderments  of 
mind,  when  wakened  suddenly  and  asked  to  find  a  match 
or  turn  up  the  dressing-room  gas  in  the  night,  to  meet 
some  emergency  of  the  baby's. 

This  time  the  development  was  a  very  busy  Friday 
forenoon  ;  in  which  the  silver  rubbing  was  omitted,  and 
the  dinner  preparations  put  off,  —  the  man  who  came  for 
"  chores  "  detained  for  heavy  lifting,  — the  large  clining- 
table  turned  up  on  edge  and  rolled  into  the  back  parlor, 
the  sideboard  brought  in  and  put  in  the  place  of  a  sofa, 
which  was  Avheeled  to  an  obtuse  angle  with  the  fire-place, 
—  nine  square  yards  of  gray  drugget,  with  a  black  Etrus 
can  border,  sent  up  by  Mr.  Scherman  from  Lovejoy's,  and 
tacked  carefully  clown  by  seam  and  stripe,  under  Ase- 
nath's  personal  direction;  cradle,  rocking-horse,  baby- 
house,  tin  carts  and  picture-books  removed  from  the 
nursery  and  arranged  in  the  new  quarters,  —  the  chil 
dren  themselves  following  back  and  forth  untiringly, 
with  their  one -foot -foremost  hop  over  the  stairs,  and 
their  hands  clasping  the  rods  of  the  balusters,  —  some 


369 

little  shabby  treasure  always  hugged  in  the  spare  arm  ; 
chairs  and  crickets,  and  the  low  table  suited  to  their 
baby-chairs,  at  which  they  played  and  ate,  transferred 
also ;  until  Asenath  stood  with  a  sudden  sadness  in  the 
deserted  chamber,  reduced  to  the  regular  bedroom  fur 
nishings,  and  looking  dead  and  bleak  with  the  little  life 
gone  out  of  it. 

But  the  warm  south  sun  was  beaming  full  into  the 
pretty  room  below,  where  the  small  possessors  of  a  whole 
new,  beautiful  world  were  chattering  and  dancing  with 
delight ;  and  up  here,  by  and  by,  the  western  shine 
would  come  to  meet  them  at  their  bedtime,  and  the  new 
moon  and  the  star-twinkle  would  peep  in  upon  their 
sleep. 

With  her  own  hands,  Asenath  made  the  room  as  fresh 
and  nice  as  could  be  ;  put  little  frilled  covers  over  the 
pillows  of  the  low  bed,  and  on  the  half -high  bureau  top  ; 
brought  in  and  set  upon  the  middle  of  this  last  a  slender 
vase  from  her  own  table,  with  a  tea-rose  in  it,  and  said  to 
herself  when  all  was  done,  — 

"  How  sweet  and  still  it  will  be  for  them  to  come  up 
to,  after  all !  It  isn't  nice  for  children  to  be  put  to  sleep 
in  the  midst  of  the  whole  day's  muss !  " 

The  final  thing  was  done  the  next  morning.  The  car 
penter  came  and  put  a  little  gate  across  the  head  of  the 
short  stairway  which  would  now  only  be  used  as  required 
between  play-room  and  kitchen  ;  the  back  stairway  of  the 
main  house  giving  equal  access  on  the  other  side  to  the 
parlor  dining-room.  China  closet  and  dumb  waiter  were 
luckily  in  that  angle,  also. 

A  second  little  railed  gate  barred  baby  trespass  into 
the  llalls.  The  sparrows  were  caged  again. 

"  What  would  you  have  done  if  they  hadn't  been  ?  " 

24 


370  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

asked  Hazel  Ripwinkley,  speaking  of  the  china  closet  and 
dumb  waiter  happening  to  be  just  as  they  were.  She 
had  come  over  one  morning  with  Miss  Craydocke,  for  a 
nursery  visit  and  to  see  the  new  arrangements. 

"  What  should  we  have  done  if  anything  hadn't  been?  " 
asked  Asenath,  in  return.  "  Everything  always  has  been, 
somehow,  in  my  life.  I  don't  believe  we  have  anything 
to  do  with  the  c  ifs '  way  back,  do  you,  Miss  llapsie  ? 
"We  couldn't  stop  short  of  the  4  if '  out  of  which  we  came 
into  the  world,  —  or  the  world  came  out  of  darkness  !  I 
think  that's  the  very  beauty  of  living." 

"  The  very  everlasting  livingness,"  said  Miss  Hapsie. 
"  We  don't  want  to  see  the  strings  by  which  the  earths 
and  moons  are  hung  up  ;  nor,  any  more,  the  threads  that 
hold  our  little  daily  possibilities." 

Asenath  had  other  visitors,  sometimes,  with  whom  it 
was  not  so  easy  to  strike  the  key-note  of  things. 

Glossy  Megilp  and  her  mother  had  come  home  from 
Europe.  They  and  the  Ledwiths  were  in  apartments  in 
one  of  the  great  "  Rabulous  "  hotels,  as  Sin  called  them, 
with  a  mingling  of  idea  and  etymology. 

44  Good  places  enough,"  she  said,  "  for  the  prologue 
and  the  epilogue  of  life  ;  but  not  for  the  blessed  mean 
while  ;  for  the  acting  of  all  the  dear  heart  and  home 
parts." 

The  two  families  had  managed  very  well  by  taking 
two  small  "  suites  "  and  making  a  common  parlor  ;  thus 
bestowing  themselves  in  one  room  less  than  they  could 
possibly  have  done  apart.  They  were  very  comfortable 
and  content ;  made  economical  breakfasts  and  teas  to 
gether,  dined  at  the  cafe\  and  had  long  forenoons  in 
which  to  run  about  and  look  in  upon  their  friends. 

Glossy  had  always  "  cultivated  "  Asenath  Scherman  ; 


"  LIVING  IN."  371 

for  though  that  young  dame  lived  at  present  a  very  re 
tired  and  domestic  life,  Miss  Megilp  was  quite  aware  that 
she  might  come  out,  and  in  precisely  the  right  place,  at 
any  minute  she  chose  ;  and  meanwhile  it  was  exceedingly 
suitable  to  know  her  well  in  this  same  intimate  privilege 
of  domesticity. 

Glossy  Megilp  was  very  polite  ;  but  she  did  not  believe 
in  the  new  order  of  things  ;  and  her  eyelids  and  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  showed  it.  Mrs.  Megilp  admired  ; 
thought  it  lovely  for  Asenath /ws£  now  ;  but  of  course  not 
a  thing  to  count  upon,  or  to  expect  generally.  In  short, 
they  treated  it  all  as  a  whim  ;  a  coincidence  of  whims. 
Asenath,  although  she  would  not  trouble  herself  about 
the  u  ifs  away  back,"  had  a  spirit  of  looking  forward 
which  impelled  her  to  argue  against  and  clear  away 
prospective  ones. 

"  Bad  things  have  lasted  long  enough,"  she  said  ;  "  I 
don't  see  why  the  good  ones  should  not,  when  once  they 
have  begun." 

"  They  won't  begin  ;  one  swallow  never  makes  a  sum 
mer.  This  has  happened  to  you,  but  it  is  absolutely 
exceptional  ;  it  will  never  be  pandemic,"  said  Mrs.  Me 
gilp,  who  was  fond  of  picking  up  little  knowing  terms  of 
speech,  and  delivering  herself  of  them  at  her  earliest  sub 
sequent  convenience. 

"  l  Never '  is  the  only  really  imposing  word  in  the  lan 
guage,"  said  Asenath,  innocently.  "  I  don't  believe 
either  you  or  I  quite  understand  it.  But  I  fancy  every 
thing  begins  with  exceptions,  and  happens  in  spots,  — 
from  the  settling  of  a  continent  to  the  doing  up  of  back- 
hair  in  new  fashions.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were  an 
excellent  way  to  take  life,  to  make  it  as  exceptional  as 
you  can,  in  all  unexceptionable  directions.  To  help  to 


372  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

thicken  up  the  good  spots  till  the  world  gets  confluent 
with  them.  I  suppose  that  is  what  is  meant  by  making 
one's  mark  in  it,  don't  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Megilp  headed  about,  as  if  in  the  turn  the  talk 
had  taken  she  suddenly  found  no  thoroughfare ;  and 
asked  Asenath  if  she  had  been  to  hear  Rubinstein. 

Of  course  it  was  not  in  talk  only,. that  —  up-stairs  or 
down-stairs  —  the  exceptional  household  found  its  diffi 
culties.  It  was  not  all  pleasant  arranging  and  contriving 
for  an  undeviating  u  living  happy  ever  after." 

There  were  days  now  and  then  when  the  baby  fretted, 
or  lost  her  nap,  and  somebody  had  to  hold  her  nearly 
all  the  time  ;  when  the  door-bell  rang  as  if  with  a  con 
tinuous  and  concerted  intent  of  malice.  Stormy  Mon 
days  happened  when  clothes  would  not  dry,  entailing 
Tuesdays  and  Wednesdays  and  Thursdays  of  inter 
rupted  and  irregular  service  elsewhere. 

If  Asenath  Scherman's  real  life  had  been  anywhere 
but  in  her  home  and  with  her  children,  — if  it  had  con 
sisted  in  being  dressed  in  train-skirt  and  panier,  lace 
sleeves  and  bracelets,  with  hair  in  a  result  of  hour-long 
elaboration,  at  twelve  o'clock ;  or  of  being  out  making 
calls  in  high  street  toilet  from  that  time  until  two ;  or 
if  her  strength  had  had  to  be  reserved  for  and  repaired 
after  evening  parties ;  if  family  care  had  been  merely 
the  constantly  increasing  friction  which  the  whole  study 
of  the  art  of  living  must  be  to  reduce  and  evade,  that  the 
real  purpose  and  desire  might  sweep  on  unimpeded,  — 
she  would  soon  have  given  up  her  experiment  in  despair. 

Or  if,  on  the  other  part,  there  had  been  a  household 
below,  struggling  continually  to  escape  the  necessity  it 
was  paid  to  meet,  that  it  might  get  to  its  own  separate 
interests  and  "  privileges,"  —  if  it  had  been  utterly  for- 


"LIVING  IN."  373 

eign  and  unsympathetic  in  idea  and  perception,  only 
watchful  that  no  "  hand's  turn  "  should  be  required  of 
it  beyond  those  set  down  in  the  bond,  —  resenting  every 
occurrence,  however  unavoidable,  which  changed  or  mod 
ified  the  day's  ordering,  —  there  would  speedily  have 
come  the  old  story  of  worry,  discontent,  unreliance,  dis 
ruption. 

But  Asenath's  heart  was  with  her  little  ones  ;  she  went 
back  into  her  own  childhood  with  and  for  them,  bringing 
out  of  it  and  living  over  again  all  its  bright,  blessed  lit'tle 
ways. 

"  She  would  be  grown  up  again,"  she  said,  "by  and 
by,  when  they  were." 

She  was  keeping  herself  winsomely  gay  and  fresh 
against  the  time,  —  laying  up  treasure  in  the  kingdom 
of  all  sweet  harmonies  and  divine  intents,  that  need  not 
be  banished  beyond  the  grave,  —  although  of  that  she 
never  thought.  It  would  come  by  and  by,  for  her  reward. 
She  played  with  Sinsie  in  her  baby-house ;  she  did 
over  again,  with  her,  in  little,  the  tilings  she  was  doing 
on  not  so  very  much  larger  scale,  for  actual  every  day. 
She  invented  plays  for  Marmaduke  which  kept  the  little 
man  in  him  busy  and  satisfied.  She  collected,  eagerly, 
all  treasures  of  small  song  and  story  and  picture,  to  help 
build  the  world  of  imagination  into  which  all  child-life 
must  open  out. 

As  for  Baby  Karen,  she  was,  for  the  most  part,  only 
manifest  as  one  of  those  little  embodiments  that  are  but 
given  and  grown  out  of  such  loyal  and  happy  mother 
hood.  She  was  a  real  baby,  —  not  a  little  interloping 
animal.  She  was  never  nursed  or  tended  in  a  hurry. 
Babies  blossom,  as  plants  do,  under  the  tender  touch. 
Kate  Sencerbox,  or  Bel  Bree,  was  glad  to  come  into 


374  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

this  nest-warm  pleasantness,  when  the  mother  must  leave 
it  for  a  while.  It  was  not  an  irksomeness  flung  by,  like 
a  tangled  skein,  for  somebody  else  to  tug  at  and  unravel ; 
it  was  a  joy  in  running  order. 

When  the  hard  Monday  came,  or  the  baby  had  her 
little  tribulations,  or  it  took  a  good  tithe  of  the  time  to 
run  and  tell  callers  that  Mrs.  Scherman  was  "  very  much 
engaged  "  —  (why  can't  it  be  the  fashion  to  put  those 
messages  out  upon  the  door-knob,  or  to  tie  it  up  with  — 
a  silk  duster,  or  a  knot  of  tape  ?)  —  Kate  or  Bel  would 
look  one  at  another  and  say,  as  they  began  with  saying, 
—  "  Now,  shut  up  !  "  It  was  an  understood  thing  that 
they  were  not  to  "  fly  out  with  discouragements." 

And  nobody  knows  how  many  things  would  straighten 
themselves  if  that  could  only  be  made  the  law  of  the 
land. 

On  Wednesday  evenings,  Mrs.  Scherman  always  man 
aged  it  that  they  should  both  go  to  Desire  Ledwith's,  for 
the  Read-and-Talk. 

You  may  say  Jerusalem  is  not  taken  yet,  after  all ; 
there  are  plenty  of  "  hard  places,"  where  girls  like  Kate 
Sencerbox  and  Bel  Bree  would  not  stay  a  week  ;  there 
are  hundreds  of  women,  heads  of  houses,  who  would  not 
be  bothered  with  so  much  superfluous  intelligence,  — 
with  refinements  so  nearly  on  a  level  with  their  own. 

Granted  :  but  it  is  the  first  steps  that  cost.  Do  you 
not  think  —  do  you  not  know  —  that  a  real  good,  planted 
in  the  world,  —  in  social  living,  —  must  spread,  from 
point  to  point  where  the  circumstance  is  ready,  where  it 
is  the  "  next  thing  ?  "  If  you  do  not  believe  this,  you 
do  not  practically  believe  in  the  kingdom  ever  coming 
at  all. 

There  is  a  rotation  of  crops  in  living  and  in  commu- 


"LIVING  IN."  375 

nities,  as  well  as  in  the  order  of  vegetation  of  secret  seeds 
that  lie  in  the  earth's  bosom. 

We  shall  not  always  be  rank  with  noisome  weeds  and 
thistles  ;  here  and  there,  the  better  thought  is  swelling 
toward  the  germination  ;  the  cotyledons  of  a  fairer  hope 
are  rising  through  the  mould. 


376  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

WINTERGKEEN. 

TO  tell  of  what  has  been  happening  with  Sylvie  Ar- 
genter's  thread  of  our  story,  we  must  go  back  some 
weeks  and  pages  to  the  time  just  after  the  great  fire. 

As  it  was  with  the  spread  of  the  conflagration  itself,  so 
it  proved  also  with  the  results,  —  of  loss,  and  deprivation, 
and  change.  Many  seemed  at  first  to  stand  safely  away 
out  on  the  margin,  mere  lookers-on,  to  whom  presently, 
with  more  or  less  direct  advance,  the  great  red  wave  of 
ruin  reached,  touching,  scorching,  consuming. 

It  was  a  week  afterward  that  Sylvie  Argeiiter  learned 
that  the  Manufacturers'  Insurance  Company,  in  which 
her  mother  had,  at  her  persuasion,  invested  the  little 
actual,  tangible  remnant  of  her  property,  had  found  itself 
swallowed  up  in  its  enormous  debt ;  must  reorganize, 
begin  again,  with  fresh  capital  and  new  stockholders. 

They  had  nothing  to  reinvest.  The  money  in  the 
Continental  Bank  would  just  about  last  through  the 
winter,  paying  the  seven  dollars  a  week  for  Mrs.  Argen- 
ter,  and  spending  as  nearly  nothing  for  other  things  as 
possible.  Unless  something  came  from  My.  Farron  Saft- 
leigh  before  the  spring,  that  would  be  the  end. 

Thus  far  they  had  heard  nothing  from  these  zealous 
friends  since  they  had  parted  from  them  at  Sharon,  except 
one  sentimental  letter  from  Mrs.  Farron  Saftleigh  to  Mrs. 
Argenter,  written  from  Newport  in  September. 

Early  in  December,  another  just  such  missive  came, 
this  time  from  Denver  City.  Not  a  word  of  business  ;  a 


WINTERGREEN.  377 

pure  woman's  letter,  as  Mrs.  Farron  Saftleigh  chose  to 
rank  a  woman's  thought  and  sympathy  ;  nothing  practi 
cal,  nothing  that  had  to  do  with  coarse  topics  of  bond  and 
scrip ;  taking  the  common  essentials  of  life  for  granted, 
referring  to  the  inignorable  catastrophe  of  the  fire  as  a 
grand  elemental  phenomenon  and  spectacle,  and  soaring 
easily  away  and  beyond  all  fact  and  literalness,  into  the 
tender  vague,  the  rare  empyrean. 

Mrs.  Argenter  read  it  over  and  over,  and  wished  plain 
tively  that  she  could  go  out  to  Denver,  and  be  near  her 
friend.  She  should  like  a  new  place  ;  and  such  apprecia 
tion  and  affection  were  not  be  met  with  everywhere,  or 
often  in  a  lifetime. 

Sylvie  read  the  letter  once,  and  had  great  necessity  of 
self-restraint  not  to  toss  it  contemptuously  and  indignantly 
into  the  fire. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  one  thing,  at  least ;  that  if, 
at  the  end  of  the  six  months,  nothing  were  heard  from 
Mr.  Saftleigh  himself,  she  would  write  to  him  upon  her 
own  responsibility,  and  demand  some  intelligence  as  to 
her  mother's  investments  in  the  Latterend  and  Donno- 
whair  road,  the  reason  why  a  dividend  was  not  forthcom 
ing,  and  a  statement,  in  regard  to  actual  or  probable  sales 
of  land,  which  he  had  given  them  reason  to  expect  would 
before  that  time  have  been  made. 

One  afternoon  she  had  gone  down  with  Desire  and 
Hazel  among  the  shops ;  Desire  and  the  Ripwinkleys 
were  very  busy  about  Christmas  ;  they  had  ever  so  many 
"  notches  to  fill  in  "  in  their  rather  mixed  up  and  mutable 
memoranda.  Sylvie  only  accompanied  them  as  far  as 
Winter  Street  corner,  where  she  had  to  buy  some  peach- 
colored  double-zephyr  for  her  mother;  then  she  bade 
them  good-by,  saying  that  two  were  bad  enough  drag- 


378  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

ging  each  other  about  with  their  two  shopping  lists,  but 
that  a  third  would  extinguish  fatally  both  time  and  space, 
and  taking  her  little  parcel  in  her  hand,  and. wondering 
how  many  more  such  she  could  ever  buy,  she  returned 
home  over  the  long  hill  alone.  So  it  happened  that  on 
reaching  Greenley  Street,  she  had  quite  to  herself  a  sur 
prise  and  pleasure  which  she  found  there. 

She  went  straight  to  the  gray  room  first  of  all. 

Mrs.  Argenter  was  asleep  on.  the  low  sofa  near  the  fire, 
her  crochet  stripe-work  fallen  by  her  side  upon  the  car 
pet,  her  book  laid  face  down  with  open  leaves  upon  the 
cushion. 

Sylvie  passed  softly  into  her  own  chamber,  took  off  her 
outside  things,  and  returned  with  careful  steps  through 
her  mother's  room  to  the  hall,  and  into  the  library,  to 
find  a  book  which  she  wanted. 

On  the  table,  at  the  side  which  had  come  of  late  to  be 
considered  hers,  lay  an  express  parcel  directed  to  herself. 
She  knew  the  writing,  —  the  capital  "  S  "  made  with  a 
quick,  upward,  slanting  line,  and  finished  with  a  swell 
and  curl  upon  itself  like  a  portly  figure  "  5  "  with  the 
top-pennant  left  off  ;  the  round  sweep  after  final  letters, 
—  the  "  t's  "  crossed  backward  from  their  roots,  and  the 
stroke  stopped  short  like  a  little  rocket  just  in  poise  of 
bursting.  She  knew  it  all  by  heart,  though  she  had 
never  received  but  one  scrap  of  it  before,  —  the  card  that 
had  been  tied  to  the  ivy-plant,  with  Ilodney  Shcrrett's 
name  and  compliments. 

She  had  heard  nothing  now  of  Rodney  for  two  months. 
She  was  glad  to  be  alone  to  wonder  at  this,  to  open  it 
with  fingers  that  trembled,  to  see  what  he  could  possi 
bly  have  put  into  it  for  her. 

Within  the  brown  wrapper  was  a  square  white  box. 


WINTEKGREEN.  379 

Up  in  the  corner  of  its  cover  was  a  line  of  writing  in  the 
same  hand  ;  the  letters  very  small,  and  a  delicate  dash 
drawn  under  them.  How  neatly  special  it  looked  ! 

"  A  message  from  the  woods  for  4  Sylvia.'  ' 

She  lifted  it  off,  as  if  she  were  lifting  it  from  over  a 
thought  that  it  concealed,  a  something  within  all,  that 
waited  for  her  to  see,  to  know. 

Inside,  —  well,  the  thought  was  lovely  ! 

It  was  a  mid-winter  wreath  ;  a  wreath  of  things  that 
wait  in  the  heart  of  the  woodland  for  the  spring ;  over 
which  the  snows  slowly  gather,  keeping  them  like  a 
secret  which  must  not  yet  be  told,  but  which  peeps  green 
and  fresh  and  full  of  life  at  every  melting,  in  soft  sunny 
weather,  such  as  comes  by  spells  beforehand ;  that  must 
have  been  gathered  by  somebody  who  knew  the  hidden 
places  and  had  marked  them  long  ago. 

It  was  made  of  clusters,  here  and  there,  of  the  glossy 
daphne-like  wintergreen,  and  most  delicate,  tiny,  feathery 
plumes  of  princess-pine  ;  of  stout,  brave,  constant  little 
shield-ferns  and  spires  of  slender,  fine-notched  spleen  wort, 
such  as  thrust  themselves  up  from  rough  rock-crevices 
and  tell  what  life  is,  that  though  the  great  stones  are 
rolled  against  the  doors  of  its  sepulchre,  yet  finds  its  way 
from  the  heart  of  things,  somehow,  to  the  light.  Mitch- 
ella  vines,  with  thread-like,  wandering  stems,  and  here 
and  there  a  gleaming  scarlet  berry  among  small,  round, 
close-lying  waxy  leaves  ;  breaths  of  silvery  moss,  like  a 
frosty  vapor  ;  these  flung  a  grace  of  lightness  over  the 
closer  garlanding,  and  the  whole  lay  upon  a  bed  of  exqui 
sitely  curled  and  laminated  soft  gray  lichen. 

A  message.  Yes,  it  was  a  simple  thing,  an  unostenta 
tious  remembrance ;  no  breaking,  surely,  of  his  father's 
conditions.  Rodney  loyally  kept  away  and  manfully 


380  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

stuck  to  his  business,  but  every  spire  and  frond  and  leaf 
of  green  in  this  winter  wreath  shed  off  the  secret,  mag 
netic  meaning  with  which  it  was  charged.  Heart-light 
flowed  from  them,  and  touching  the  responsive  sensitivity, 
made  photographs  that  pictured  the  whole  story.  It  was 
a  fuller  telling  of  what  the  star-leaved  ferns  had  told  be 
fore. 

Rodney  was  not  to  "  offer  himself  "  to  Sylvie  Argent er 
till  the  two  years  were  over ;  he  was  to  let  her  have  her 
life  and  its  chances  ;  he  was  to  prove  himself,  and  show 
that  he  could  earn  and  keep  a  little  money ;  he  was  to  lay 
by  two  thousand  dollars.  This  was  what  he  had  under 
taken  to  do.  His  father  thought  he  had  a  right  to  de 
mand  these  two  years,  even  extending  beyond  the  term 
of  legal  freedom,  to  offset  the  half-dozen  of  boyish,  heed 
less  extravagance,  before  he  should  put  money  into  his 
son's  hands  to  begin  responsible  work  with,  or  consent 
approvingly  to  his  making  of  what  might  be  only  a 
youthful  attraction,  a  tie  to  bind  him  solemnly  and  unal 
terably  for  life. 

But  the  very  stones  cry  out.  The  meaning  that  is 
repressed  from  speech  intensifies  in  all  that  is  permitted. 
You  may  keep  two  persons  from  being  nominally  "  en 
gaged,"  but  you  cannot  keep  two  hearts,  by  any  mere 
silence,  from  finding  each  other  out ;  and  the  inward  be 
trothal  in  which  they  trust  and  wait,  —  that  is  the  most 
beautiful  time  of  all.  The  blessedness  of  acknowledg 
ment,  when  it  comes,  is  the  blessedness  of  owning  and 
looking  back  together  upon  what  has  already  been. 

Sylvie  made  a  space  for  the  white  box  upon  a  broad 
old  bureau-top  in  her  room.  She  put  its  cover  on  again 
over  the  message  in  green  cipher ;  she  would  only  care  to 
look  at  it  on  purpose,  and  once  in  a  while  ;  she  would  not 


WINTERGREEN.  381 

keep  it  out  to  the  fading  light  and  soiling  touch  of  every 
day.  She  spread  across  the  cover  itself  and  its  written 
sentence  her  last  remaining  broidered  and  laced  handker 
chief.  The  wreath  would  dry,  she  knew ;  it  must  lose 
its  first  glossy  freshness  with  which  it  had  come  from 
under  the  snows  ;  but  it  should  dry  there  where  Rodney 
put  it,  and  not  a  leaf  should  fall  out  of  it  and  be  lost. 

She  was  happier  in  these  subtle  signs  that  revealed  in 
ward  relation  than  she  would  have  been  just  now  in  an 
outspokenness  that  demanded  present,  definite  answer 
and  acceptance  of  outward  tie.  It  might  come  to  be  ; 
who  could  tell  ?  But  if  she  had  been  asked  now  to  let  it 
be,  there  would  have  been  her  troubles  to  give,  with  her 
affection.  How  could  she  burden  anybody  doubly  ?  How 
could  she  fling  all  her  needs  and  anxieties  into  the  life 
of  one  she  cared  for  ? 

There  was  a  great  deal  for  Sylvie  to  do  between  now 
and  any  marriage.  Her  worry  soon  came  back  upon  her 
with  a  dim  fear,  as  the  days  passed  on,  touching  the  very 
secret  hope  and  consciousness  that  she  was  happy  in. 
What  might  come  to  be  her  plain  duty,  now,  very 
shortly  ?  Something,  perhaps,  that  would  change  it  all ; 
that  would  make  it  seem  strange  and  unsuitable  for  Rod 
ney  Sherrett  ever  to  interpret  that  fair  message  into 
words.  Something  that  would  put  social  distance  between 
them. 

Her  mother,  above  all,  must  be  cared  for ;  and  her 
mother'sjnoney  was  so  nearly  gone'! 

Desire  Ledwith  was  kind,  but  she  must  not  live  on  any 
body's  kindness.  As  soon  as  she  possibly  could,  she  must 
find  something  to  do.  There  must  be  no  delay,  no  lin 
gering,  after  the  little  need  there  was  of  her  here  now, 
should  cease.  Every  day  of  willing  waiting  would  be  a 
day  of  dishonorable  dependence. 


882  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

It  was  now  three  months  since  Mrs.  Froke  had  gone 
away  :  and  letters  from  her  brought  the  good  tidings  of 
successful  surgical  treatment  and  a  rapid  gaining  of 
strength.  She  might  soon  be  able  to  come  back.  Sylvie 
knew  that  Desire  could  either  continue  to  contrive  work 
for  her  a  while  longer,  or  spare  her  to  other  and  more  full 
employment,  could  such  be  found.  She  watched  the 
u  Transcript "  list  of  "  Wants,"  and  wished  there  might 
be  a  "  Want  "  made  expressly  for  her. 

How  many  anxious  eyes  scan  those  columns  through 
•with  a  like  longing,  every  night ! 

If  she  coidd  get  copying  to  do,  —  if  she  could  obtain  a 
situation  in  the  State  House,  that  paradise  of  well  paid 
female  scribes  !  If  she  could  even  learn  to  set  up  type, 
and  be  employed  in  a  printing-office  ?  If  there  were  any 
chance  in  a  library?  Even  work  of  this  sort  would  take 
her  away  from  her  mother  in  the  daytime  ;  she  would 
have  to  provide  some  attendance  for  her.  She  must  fur 
nish  her  room  nicely,  wherever  it  was  ;  that  she  could  do 
from  the  remnants  of  their  household  possessions  stored 
at  Dorbury  ;  and  her  mother  must  have  a  delicate  little 
dinner  every  day.  For  breakfast  and  tea — she  could  see 
to  those  before  and  after  work  ;  and  her  own  dinners  could 
be  anything,  —  anywhere.  She  must  get  a  cheap  room, 
where  some  tidy  lodging  woman  would  do  what  was  need 
ful  ;  and  that  would  take,  —  oh,  dear  !  she  couldn't  say 
less  than  six  or  seven  dollars  a  week,  and  where  were  food 
and  clothes  to  come  from  ?  At  any  rate,  she  must  begin 
before  their  present  resources  were  utterly  exhausted,  or 
what  would  become  of  her  mother's  cream,  and  fruit,  and 
beef-tea  ? 

Mingled  with  all  her  troubled  and  often-reviewed  cal 
culations,  would  intrude  now  and  then  the  thought,  — 


WINTERGREEN.  383 

shouldn't  she  have  to  be  willing  to  wear  out  and  grow 
ugly,  with  hard  work  and  insufficient  nourishing  ?  And 
she  would  have  so  liked  to  keep  fresh  and  pretty  for  the 
time  that  might  have  come  ! 

In  the  days  when,  these  things  were  keeping  her 
anxious,  the  winter  wreath  was  also  slowly  turning  dry. 

She  found  herself  hemmed  in  and  headed  at  every  turn 
by  the  pitiless  hedge  and  ditch  of  circumstance,  at  which 
girls  and  women  in  our  time  have  to  chafe  and  wait ; 
and  from  which  there  seems  to  be  no  way  out.  Yet  there 
are  ways  out  from  this,  as  from  all  things.  One  way — • 
the  way  of  thorough  womanly  home-helpfulness  —  was 
not  clear  to  her  ;  there  are  many  to  whom  it  is  not  clear. 
Yet  if  those  to  whom  it  is,  or  might  be,  would  take  it,  — 
if  those  who  might  give  it,  in  many  forms,  would  give,  — 
who  knows  what  relief  and  loosening  would  come  to 
others  in  the  hard  jostle  and  press  ? 

There  is  another  way  out  of  all  puzzle  and  perplexity 
and  hardness  ;  it  is  the  Lord's  special  way  for  each  one, 
that  we  cannot  foresee,  and  that  we  never  know  until 
it  comes.  Then  we  discern  that  there  has  never  been 
impossibility ;  that  all  things  are  open  before  his  eyes ; 
and  that  there  is  no  temptation,  —  no  trying  of  us,  —  to 
which  He  will  not  provide  some  end  or  escape. 

In  the  first  week  of  January,  Sylvie  acted  upon  her 
resolve  of  writing  to  Mr.  Farron  Saftleigh.  She  asked 
brief  and  direct  questions  ;  told  him  that  she  was  obliged 
to  request  an  answer  without  the  least  delay  ;  and  begged 
that  he  would  fender  them  a  clear  statement  of  all  their 
affairs.  She  reminded  him  that  he  had  told  them  that 
he  would  be  responsible  for  their  receiving  a  dividend  of 
at  least  four  per  cent,  at  the  end  of  the  six  months. 

Mr.  Farron   Saftleigh    "told"   people  a  great   many 


334  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

things  in  his  genial,  exhilarating  business  talks,  which  he 
was  a  great  deal  too  wise  ever  to  put  down  on  paper. 

Sylvie  waited  ten  days ;  a  fortnight ;  three  weeks  ;  no 
answer  came.  Mr.  Farron  Saftleigh  had  simply  destroyed 
the  letter,  of  no  consequence  at  all  as  coming  from  a  per 
son  not  primarily  concerned  or  authorized,  and  set  off 
from  Denver  City  the  same  day  for  a  business  visit  to 
San  Francisco. 

Sylvie  saw  the  plain  fact ;  that  they  were  penniless. 
And  this  could  not  be  told  to  her  mother. 

She  went  to  Desire  Ledwith,  and  asked  her  what  she 
could  do. 

"  I  would  go  into  a  household  anywhere,  as  Dot  Ingra- 
ham  and  Bel  Bree  have  done,  to  earn  board  and  wages, 
and  spend  my  money  for  my  mother ;  but  I  can't  leave 
her.  And  there's  no  sewing  work  to  get,  even  if  I  could 
do  it  at  night  and  in  honest  spare  time.  I  know,  as  it  is, 
that  my  service  isn't  worth  what  you  give  me  in  return, 
and  of  course  I  cannot  stay  here  any  longer  now." 

"  Of  course  you  can  stay  where  God  puts  you,  dear," 
answered  Desire  Ledwith.  "  Let  your  side  of  it  alone 
for  a  minute,  and  think  of  mine.  If  you  were  in  my 
place,  —  trying  to  live  as  one  of  the  large  household, 
remember,  and  looking  for  your  opportunities,  —  what 
would  you  say,  —  what  would  you  plainly  hear  said  to 
you,  —  about  this  ?  " 

Sylvie  was  silent. 

"  Tell  me  truly,  Sylvie.  Put  it  into  words.  What 
would  it  be  ?  What  would  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Just  what  you  do,  I  suppose,"  said  Sylvie,  slowly. 
"  But  I  don't  hear  it  on  my  side.  My  part  doesn't  seem 
to  chord." 

"  Your  part  just  pauses.     There  are  no  notes  written 


WINTERGREEN.  385 

just  here,  in  your  score.  Your  part  is  to  wait.  Think, 
and  see  if  it  isn't.  The  Dakie  Thaynes  are  going  out 
West  again.  Mr.  Thayne  knows  about  lands,  and  such 
things.  He  would  do  something,  and  let  you  know.  A 
real  business  man  would  make  this  Saftleigh  fellow 
afraid." 

The  Thaynes  —  Mrs.  Dakie  Thayne  is  our  dear  little 
old  friend  Ruth  Holabird,  you  know  —  had  been  visit 
ing  in  Boston  ;  staying  partly  here,  and  partly  at  Mrs. 
Frank  Scherman's.  At  Asenath's  they  were  real  "  com 
fort-friends  ;  "  Asenath  had  the  faculty  of  gathering  only 
such  about  her.  She  felt  no  necessity,  with  them,  for 
grand,  late  dinners,  or  any  show ;  there  was  no  trouble 
or  complication  in  her  household  because  of  them.  Ruth 
insisted  upon  the  care  of  her  own  room ;  it  was  like  the 
"  cooperative  times  "  at  Westover.  Mrs.  Scherman  said 
it  was  wonderful,  when  your  links  were  with  the  right 
people,  how  simple  you  could  make  your  art  of  living ; 
you  could  actually  be  "  quite  Holabird-y,"  even  in  Bos 
ton  !  But  this  digresses. 

"  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Thayne  about  it,"  said  Desire. 
"  And  now,  dear,  if  you  could  just  mark  these  towels  this 
morning  ?  " 

Sylvie  sat  marking  the  towels,  and  Desire  passed  to 
and  fro,  gathering  things  which  were  to  go  to  Neighbor 
Street  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Do  you  see,"  she  said,  stopping  behind  Sylvie  a  while 
after,  and  putting  her  fingers  upon  her  hair  with  a  caress 
ing  little  touch,  —  "  the  sun  has  got  round  from  the  east 
to  the  south.  It  shines  into  this  window  now.  And  you 
have  been  keeping  quiet,  just  doing  your  own  little  work 
of  the  moment.  The  world  is  all  alive,  and  changing. 
Things  are  working  —  away  up  in  the  heavens  —  for  us 

25 


386  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

all.  When  people  don't  know  which  way  to  turn,  it  is 
very  often  good  not  to  turn  at  all ;  if  they  are  driven, 
they  do  know.  Wait  till  you  are  driven,  or  see ;  you  will 
be  shown,  one  way  or  the  other.  It  is  almost  always 
when  things  are  all  blocked  up  and  impossible,  that  a 
happening  comes.  It  has  to.  A  dead  block  can't  last, 
any  more  than  a  vacuum.  If  you  are  sure  you  are  look 
ing  and  ready,  that  is  all  you  need.  God  is  turning  the 
world  round  all  the  time." 

Desire  did  not  say  one  word  about  the  ninety-eight 
dollars  which  lay  in  one  of  the  locked  drawers  of  her 
writing  desk,  in  precisely  the  shape  in  which  every  two 
or  three  weeks  she  had  let  Sylvie  put  the  money  into  herx 
hands.  There  would  be  a  right  time  for  that.  She 
would  force  nothing.  Sylvie  would  come  near  enough, 
yet,  for  that  perfect  understanding  in  which  those  bits  of 
stamped  paper  would  cease  to  be  terrible  between  their 
hands,  either  way. 


NEIGHBOR  STREET  AND  GRAVES  ALLEY.      387 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

NEIGHBOR   STREET  AND  GRAVES   ALLEY. 

T)ODNEY  SHERRETT  had  heard  of  the  Argenters' 
-"  losses  by  the  fire ;  what  would  have  been  the  good  of 
his  correspondence  with  Aunt  Euphrasia,  and  how  would 
she  have  expected  to  keep  him  pacified  up  in  Arlesbury, 
if  he  could  not  get,  regularly,  all  she  knew  ?  Of  course 
he  ferreted  out  of  her,  likewise,  the  rest  of  the  business, 
as  fast  as  she  heard  it. 

"  It's  really  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  so  confided  in,  all 
round  ! "  she  said  to  Desire  Ledwith,  when  they  had  been 
talking  one  morning.  "  People  don't  know  half  the  ways 
in  which  everything  that  gets  poured  into  my  mind  con 
cerns  everything  else.  As  an  iutelligent  human  being,  to 
say  nothing  of  sympathies,  I  can't  act  as  if  they  weren't 
there.  I  feel  like  a  kind  of  Judas  with  a  bag  of  secrets 
to  keep,  and  playing  the  traitor  with  every  one  of  them  ! " 

"  What  a  nice  world  it  would  be  if  there  were  only 
plenty  more  just  such  Judases  to  carry  the  bags !  "  Desire 
answered,  buttoning  on  her  Astrachan  collar,  and  picking 
up  her  muff  to  go. 

Whereupon  five  minutes  after,  the  amiable  traitress 
was  seated  at  her  writing-desk  replying  to  Rodney's  last 
imperative  inquiry,  and  telling  him,  under  protest,  as 
something  he  could  not  possibly  help,  or  have  to  do  with, 
the  further  misfortune  of  Sylvie  and  her  mother. 

Mr.  Dakie  Thayne  had  honestly  expressed  his  convic 
tion  to  Miss  Kirkbright  and  Desire  Ledwith,  that  the 
Donnowhair  business  was  an  irresponsible,  loose  specula- 


388  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

tion.  He  said  that  he  had  heard  of  this  Farron  Saftleigh 
and  his  schemes  ;  that  he  might  frighten  him  into  some 
sort  of  small  restitution,  and  that  he  would  look  into  the 
title  of  the  lands  for  Mrs.  Argenter ;  but  that  the  value 
of  these  fell  of  course,  with  the  railroad  shares  ;  and  the 
railroad  was,  at  present,  at  any  rate,  mere  moonshine  ; 
stopped  short,  probably,  in  the  woods  somewhere,  waiting 
for  the  country  to  be  settled  up  beyond  Latterend. 

"  Am  I  bound  by  my  promise  against  such  a  time  as 
this  ?  "  Rodney  wrote  back  to  Aunt  Euphrasia.  "  Can't 
I  let  Sylvie  know,  at  least,  that  I  am  working  for  her,  and 
that  if  she  will  say  so,  I  will  be  her  mother's  son  ?  I  could 
get  a  little  house  here  in  Arlesbury,  for  a  hundred  dollars 
a  year.  I  am  earning  fifteen  hundred  now,  and  I  shall 
save  my  this  year's  thousand.  I  shall  not  need  any  larger 
putting  into  business.  I  don't  care  for  it.  I  shall  work 
my  way  up  here.  I  believe  I  am  better  off  with  an  income 
that  I  can  clearly  see  through,  than  with  one  which  sits 
loose  enough  around  my  imagination  to  let  me  take  notions. 
Can't  you  stretch  your  discretionary  power  ?  Don't  you 
see  my  father  couldn't  but  consent  ?  " 

The  motive  had  touched  Rodney  Sherrett's  love  and 
manliness,  just  as  this  fine  manoeuvrer,  —  pulling  wires 
whose  ends  laid  hold  of  character,  not  circumstance,  —  be 
lieved  and  meant.  It  had  only  added  to  the  strength  and 
loyalty  of  his  purpose.  She  had  looked  deeper  than  a  mere 
word-faithfulness  in  communicating  to  him  what  another 
might  have  deemed  it  wiser  not  to  let  him  know.  She 
thought  he  had  a  right  to  the  motives  that  were  made  for 
him.  But  when  a  month  would  take  this  question  of  his 
abroad  and  bring  back  an  answer,  Miss  Euphrasia  would 
not  force  beyond  the  letter  any  interpretation  of  pro 
visional  authority  which  her  brother-in-law  had  deputed. 


NEIGHBOR  STREET  AND  GRAVES  ALLEY.      389 

She  would  only  draw  herself  closer  to  Sylvie  in  all  possible 
confidence  and  friendliness.  She  would  only  move  her  to 
acquiescence  yet  a  little  longer  in  what  her  friends  offered 
and  urged.  She  represented  to  her  that  they  must  at 
least  wait  to  hear  from  Mr.  Thayne ;  there  might  be  some 
thing  coming  from  the  West ;  and  it  would  be  cruel  to 
hurry  her  mother  into  a  life  which  could  not  but  afflict 
her,  until  an  absolute  necessity  should  be  upon  them. 

She  bade  Rodney  be  patient  yet  a  few  weeks  more,  and 
to  leave  it  to  her  to  write  to  his  father.  She  did  write  : 
but  she  also  put  Rodney's  letter  in. 

"  Things  which  are  might  as  well,  and  more  truly,  be 
taken  into  account,  and  put  in  their  proper  tense,"  she 
urged,  to  Mr.  Sherrett.  "  There  is  a  bond  between  these 
two  lives  which  neither  you  nor  I  have  the  making  or  the 
timing  of.  It  will  assert  itself  ;  it  will  modify  everything. 
This  is  just  what  the  Lord  has  given  Rodney  to  do.  It 
is  not  your  plan,  or  authority,  but  this  in  his  heart,  which 
has  set  him  to  work,  and  made  him  save  his  money.  Why 
not  let  them  begin  to  live  the  life  while  it  is  yet  alive  ? 
It  wears  by  waiting  ;  it  cannot  help  it.  You  must  not 
expect  a  miracle  of  your  boy ;  you  must  take  the  motive 
while  it  is  fresh,  and  let  it  work  in  God's  way.  The 
power  is  there  ;  but  you  must  let  the  wheels  be  put  in 
gear.  Simply,  I  advise  you  to  permit  the  engagement, 
and  the  marriage.  If  you  do  not,  I  think  you  will  rob 
them  of  a  part  of  their  real  history  which  they  have  a 
right  to.  Marriage  is  a  making  of  life  together ;  not  a 
taking  of  it  after  it  is  made." 

It  was  February  when  this  letter  was  sent  out. 

One  day  in  the  middle  of  the  month,  Desire  Ledwith, 
Hazel  Ripwinkley,  and  Sylvie  had  business  with  Lucla- 
rion  in  Neighbor  Street.  There  was  work  to  carry;  a 


390  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

little  basket  of  things  for  the  fine  laundry  ;  some  bakery 
orders  to  give.  There  was  always  Luclarion  herself  to 
see.  Just  now,  besides  and  especially,  they  were  all  inter 
ested  in  Ray  Ingraham's  rooms  that  were  preparing  in 
the  next  house  to  the  Neighbors  ;  a  house  which  Mr.  Geof 
frey  and  others  had  bought,  enlarged,  and  built  up  ;  fit 
ting  it  in  comfortable  suites  for  housekeeping,  at  rents  of 
from  twenty-five  to  thirty  dollars  a  month,  each.  They 
were  as  complete  and  substantial  in  all  their  appointments 
as  apartments  as  the  Commonwealth  or  the  Berkeley ; 
there  was  only  no  magnificence,  and  there  was  no  "  local 
ity  "  to  pay  for.  The  locality  was  to  be  ministered  to  and 
redeemed,  by  the  very  presence  of  this  growth  of  pure  and 
pleasant  and  honorable  living  in  its  midst.  For  the  most 
part,  those  who  took  up  an  abiding  here  had  enough  of 
the  generous  human  sense  in  them  to  account  it  a  satisfac 
tion  so  to  contribute  themselves  ;  for  the  rest,  there  was 
a  sprinkling  of  decent  people,  who  were  glad  to  get  good 
homes  cheap  in  the  heart  of  a  dear  city ;  and  the  public, 
Christian  intent  of  the  movement  sheltered  and  counte 
nanced  them  with  its  chivalrous  respectability. 

Frank  S  underline  and  Ray  were  to  live  here  for  a  year ; 
they  were  to  be  married  the  first  of  March.  Frank  had 
said  that  Ray  would  have  to  manage  him  and  the  Bakery 
too,  and  Ray  was  prepared  to  fulfill  both  obligations. 

She  was  going  to  carry  out  here,  with  Luclarion  Grapp, 
her  idea  of  public  supply  for  the  chief  staple  of  food. 
They  were  going  to  try  a  manufacture  of  breadstuffs  and 
cakestuffs,  on  real  home  principles,  by  real  domestic 
receipts.  They  were  going  to  have  sale  shops  in  different 
quarters,  —  at  the  South  and  West  ends.  Already  their 
laundry  sustained  itself  by  doing  excellent  work  at  mod 
erate  prices  ;  why  should  they  not,  in  still  another  way, 


NEIGHBOR   STREET   AND   GRAVES  ALLEY.  891 

meet  and  play  into  the  movement  of  the  time  for  simpli 
fying  it,  and  making  household  routine  more  independent  ? 

"Why  shouldn't  there  be,"  Ray  said,  with  appetizing 
emphasis,  "  a  place  to  buy  cup  cake,  and  composition  cake, 
and  sponge  cake,  tender  and  rich,  made  with  eggs  instead 
of  ammonia  ?  Why  shouldn't'  there  be  pies  with  sweet 
butter-crust  crisp  and  good  like  mother's,  and  nice  whole 
some  little  puddings  ?  Everybody  knew  that  since  the 
war,  when  the  confectioners  began  to  economize  in  their 
materials  and  double  their  prices  at  the  same  time,  there 
was  nothing  fit  to  buy  and  call  cake  in  the  city.  Why 
shouldn't  somebody  begin  again,  honest  ?  And  here,  where 
they  didn't  count  upon  outrageous  profits,  why  couldn't 
it  be  as  well  as  not  ?  When  there  was  a  good  thing  to  be 
had  in  one  place,  other  places  would  "have  to  keep  up.  It 
would  make  a  difference  everywhere,  sooner  or  later." 

"  And  all  these  girls  to  be  learning  a  business  that  they 
could  set  up  anywhere  !  "  said  Hazel  Ripwinkley.  "  Every 
body  eats  !  Just  a  new  thing,  if  it's  only  new  trash,  sells 
•  for  a  while  ;  and  these  new,  old-fashioned,  grandmother's 
cupboard  things,  —  why,  people  would  j  ust  swarm  after 
them !  Cooks  never  knew  how,  and  ladies  didn't  have 
time.  Don't  forget,  Luclarion,  the  bright  yellow  ginger 
pound-cake  that  we  used  to  have  up  at  Homesworth ! 
Everything  was  so  good  at  Homesworth  —  the  place  was 
named  out  of  comforts !  Why  don't  you  call  it  the  Homes- 
worth  Bakery  ?  That  would  be  double-an-tender, —  eh, 
Lukey  I  " 

Marion  Kent  made  a  beautiful  silk  quilt  for  Ray  Ingra- 
ham,  out  of  her  sea-green  and  buff  dresses,  and  had  given 
it  to  her  for  a  wedding-present.  For  the  one  only  time 
as  she  did  so,  she  spoke  her  heart  out  upon  that  which 
they  had  both  perfectly  understood,  but  had  never  alluded 
to. 


892  THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

"  You  know,  Ray,  just  as  I  do,  what  might  have  been  ; 
and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I'm  contented,  and  there 
isn't  a  grudge  in  my  heart.  You  and  Frank  have  both 
been  too  much  to  me  for  that.  I  can  see  how  it  was, 
though.  It  was  a  hand's  turn  once.  But  I  went  my  way 
and  you  kept  quietly  on.  It  was  the  real  woman,  not  the 
sham  one,  that  he  wanted  for  a  wife.  It  doesn't  trouble 
me  now ;  it's  all  right ;  and  when  it  might  have  troubled 
me,  it  didn't  add  a  straw's  weight.  It  fell  right  off  from 
me.  You  can't  suffer  all  through  with  more  than  one 
thing ;  when  you  were  engaged,  I  had  my  load  to  bear. 
I  knew  I  had  forfeited  everything ;  what  difference  did 
one  part  make  more  than  another  ?  It  was  what  I  had 
let  go  out  of  the  world,  Ray,  that  made  the  whole  world 
a  prison  and  a  punishment.  I  couldn't  have  taken  a  hap 
piness,  if  it  had  come  to  me.  All  I  wanted  was  work  and 
forgiveness."  '. 

"  Dear  Marion,  how  certainly  you  must  know  you  are 
forgiven,  by  the  spirit  that  is  in  you  !  And  for  happiness, 
dear,  there  is  a  Forever  that  is  full  of  it !  I  don't  think 
it  is  any  one  thing,  — not  even  any  one  marrying." 

So  the  two  kissed  each  other,  and  went  down  into  the 
other  house  —  Luclarion's. 

That  had  been  only  a  few  days  ago,  and  Ray  had 
shown  the  quilt,  so  rich  and  lustrous,  and  delicate  with 
beautiful  shellwork  stitchery,  —  to  the  young  girls  this 
afternoon. 

She  Showed  the  quilt  with  loving  pride  and  praise,  but 
the  story  of  it  she  kept  in  her  heart,  among  her  prayers. 
Frank  Sunderline  never  knew  more  than  the  fair  fabric 
and  color,  and  the  name  of  the  giver,  told  him.  Frank 
Sunderline  scarcely  knew  so  much  as  these  two  women 
did,  of  the  unanalyzed  secrets  of  his  own  life. 


NEIGHBOR  STREET  AND  GRAVES  ALLEY.       393 

Luclarion  waited  till  all  this  was  over,  and  Desire  Led- 
with  had  come  back  from  Ray  Ingraham's  rooms  to  hers, 
leaving  Hazel  and  Sylvie  among  the  fascinations  of  new 
crockery  and  bridal  tin  pans,  before  she  said  anything 
about  a  very  sad  and  important  thing  she  had  to  tell  her 
and  consult  about.  She  took  her  into  her  own  little 
sitting-room  to  hear  the  story,  and  then  up-stairs,  to  see 
the  woman  of  whom  the  story  had  to  be  told. 

"  It  was  Mr.  Tipps,  the  milkman,  came  to  me  yester 
day  with  it  all,"  said  Luclarion.  "  He's  a  good  soul, 
Tipps ;  as  clever  as  ever  was.  He  was  "just  in  on  his 
early  rounds,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  —  an  awful 
blustering,  cold'  night,  night  before  last  was,  —  and  he 
was  coming  by  Graves  Alley,  when  he  heard  a  queer  kind 
of  crazy  howling  down  there  out  of  sight.  He  wouldn't 
have  minded  it,  I  suppose,  for  there's  always  drunken 
noise  enough  about  in  those  places,  but  it  was  a  woman's 
voice,  and  a  baby's  crying  was  mixed  up  with  it.  So  he 
just  flung  his  reins  down  over  his  horse's  back,  and 
jumped  off  his  wagon,  and  ran  down.  It  was  this  girl,  — 
Mary  Moxall  her  name  is,  and  Mocks-all  it  ought  to  be, 
sure  enough,  to  finish  up  after  that  pure,  blessed  name 
so  many  of  these  miserables  have  got  christened  with ; 
and  she  was  holding  the  child  by  the  heels,  head  down, 
swinging  it  back  and  for'ard,  as  you'd  let  a  gold  ring 
swing  on  a  hair  in  a  tumbler,  to  try  your  fortune  by, 
waiting  till  it  would  hit  and  ring. 

"  It  was  all  but  striking  the  brick  walls  each  side,  and 
she  was  muttering  and  howling  like  a  young  she-devil 
over  it,  her  eyes  all  crazy  and  wild,  and  her  hair  hanging 
down  her  shoulders.  Tipps  flew  and  grabbed  the  baby, 
and  then  she  turned  and  clawed  him  like  a  tiger-cat.  But 
he's  a  strong  man,  and  cool ;  he  held  the  child  back  with 


394  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

one  hand,  and  with  the  other  he  got  hold  of  one  of  her 
wrists  and  gave  it  a  grip,  —  just  twist  enough  to  make 
the  other  hand  come  after  his  ;  and  then  he  caught  them 
both.  She  spit  and  kicked  ;  it  was  all  she  could  do  ;  she 
was  just  a  mad  thing.  She  lost  her  balance,  of  course, 
and  went  down ;  he  put  his  foot  on  her  chest,  just  enough 
to  show  her  he  could  master  her ;  and  then  she  went 
from  howling  to  crying.  '  Finish  me,  and  I  wouldn't 
care  ! '  she  said  ;  and  then  lay  still,  all  in  a  heap,  moan 
ing.  '  I  won't  hurt  ye,'  says  Tipps.  '  I  never  hurt  a 
woman  yet,  soul  nor  body.  What  was  ye  goin'  to  do 
with  this  'ere  little  baby  ? '  'I  was  goin'  to  send  it  out 
of  the  hell  it's  born  into,'  she  said,  with  an  awful  hate  in 
the  sound  of  her  voice.  '  Goin'  to  kill  it !  You  wouldn't 
ha'  done  that  ?  '  4  Yes,  I  would.  I'd  'a  done  it,  if  I  was 
hanged  for  it  the  next  minute.  Isn't  it  my  business  that 
ever  it  was  here  ?  ' 

"  '  Now  look  here  ! '  says  Tipps.  '  You're  calmed 
down  a  little.  If  you'll  stay  calm,  and  come  with  me,  I'll 
take  you  to  a  safe  place.  If  you  don't,  I'll  call  a  police 
man,  and  you'll  go  to  the  lock-up.  Which'll  ye  have  ?  ' 
'  You've  got  me,'  she  said,  in  a  kind  of  a  sulk.  '  I  s'pose 
you'll  do  what  you  like  with  me.  That's  the  way  of  it. 
Anybody  can  be  as  bad  and  as  miserable  as  they  please, 
but  they  won't  be  let  out  of  it.  It's  hell,  I  tell  you,  — 
this  very  world.  And  folks  don't  know  they've  got 
there.' 

"  Tipps  says  there's  hopes  of  her  from  just  thatword 
bad.  She  wouldn't  have  put  that  in,  otherways.  Well, 
he  brought  her  here,  and  the  baby.  And  they're  both 
up-stairs.  She's  as  weak  as  water,  now  the  drink  is 
out  of  her.  But  it  wasn't  all  drink.  The  desperation  is 
in  her  eyes,  though  it's  give  way,  and  helpless.  And 
what  to  do  with  'em  next,  I  don't  know." 


NEIGHBOR  STREET  AND  GRAVES  ALLEY.      395 

"  I  do,"  said  Desire,  with  her  eyes  full.  "  She  must 
be  comforted  up.  And  then,  Mr.  Vireo  must  know,  the 
first  thing.  Afterwards,  he  will  see." 

Luclarion  took  Desire  up-stairs. 

The  girl  was  lying,  in  a  clean  night-dress,  in  a  clean, 
white  bed.  Her  hair,  dark  and  beautiful,  was  combed 
'and  braided  away  from  her  face,  and  lay  back,  in  two 
long,  heavy  plaits,  across  the  pillow.  Her  features  were 
sharp,  but  delicate,  and  were  meant  to  have  been  pretty. 
But  her  eyes  I  Out  of  them  a  suffering  demon  seemed 
to  look,  with  a  still,  hopeless  rage. 

Desire  came  up  to  the  bedside. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  the  girl  said,  slowly,  with  a 
deep,  hard,  resentful  scorn  in  her  voice.  Have  you  come 
to  see  what  it  is  all  like  ?  Do  you  want  to  feel  how  clean 
you  are  beside  me  ?  That's  a  part  of  it ;  the  way  they 
torment." 

It  was  like  the  cry  of  the  devil  out  of  the  man  against 
the  Son  of  God. 

"  No,"  said  Desire,  just  as  slowly,  in  her  turn.  "  I  can 
only  feel  the  cleanness  in  you  that  is  making  you  suffer 
against  the  sin.  The  badness  doesn't  belong  to  you.  Let 
it  go,  and  begin  again." 

It  was  the  word  of  the  Lord,  —  "  Hold  thy  peace,  and 
come  out  of  him."  Desire  Ledwith  spoke  as  she  was 
that  minute  moved  of  the  Spirit.  The  touch  of  power 
went  down  through  all  the  misery  and  badness,  to  the 
woman  s  soul,  that  knew  itself  to  be  just  clean  enough 
for  agony.  She  turned  her  eyes,  Avith  the  fiery  gloom  in 
them,  away,  pressing  her  forehead  down  against  the 
pillow. 

"  God  sees  it  better  than  I  do,"  said  Desire,  gently. 

An   arm  flung  itself  out  from  under  the   bedclothes, 


396  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

thrusting  them  off.  The  head  rolled  itself  over,  with  the 
face  away.  . « 

"God!  Pf!" 

So  far  from  Him ;  and  yet  so  close,  in  the  awful  hold 
of  his  unrelaxing  love  ! 

Desire  kept  silence ;  she  could  not  force  upon  her 
the  thought,  the  Name  :  the  Name  for  whose  hallowing 
to  pray,  is  to  pray  for  the  holiness  in  ourselves  that  alone 
can  make  it  tender. 

"What  do  you  know  about  God?"  the  voice  asked 
defiantly,  the  face  still  turned  away. 

"  I  know  that  his  Living  Spirit  touches  your  thought 
and  mine,  this  moment,  and  moves  them  to  each  other. 
As  you  and  I  are  alive,  He  is  alive  beside  us  and  between 
us.  Your  pain  is  his  pain  for  you.  You  feel  it  just  where 
you  are  joined  to  Him  ;  in  the  quick  of  your  soul.  If  it 
were  not  for  that,  you  would  be  dead  ;  you  could  not 
feel  at  all." 

Was  this  the  Desire  Led  with  of  the  old  time,  with 
deep  thoughts  but  half  understood,  and  shrinking  always 
from  any  recognizing  word  ?  She  shrunk  now,  just  as 
much,  from  any  needless  expression  of  herself ;  from  any 
parade  or  talking  over  of  sacred  perception  and  experi 
ence  ;  but  the  real  life  was  all  the  stronger  in  her ;  all  the 
surer  to  use  her  when  its  hour  came.  She  had  escaped 
out  of  all  shams  and  contradictions.  Unconsent  to  the 
divine  impulse  comes  of  incongruity.  There  was  no 
incongruity  now,  to  shame  or  to  deter ;  no  separate  or 
double  consciousness  to  stand  apart  in  her  soul,  rebuked 
or  repugnant.  She  gave  herself  quietly,  simply,  freely, 
to  God's  thought  for  this  other  child  of  his  ;  the  Thought 
that  she  knew  was  touching  and  stirring  her  own. 

"  I  shall  send  somebody  to  you  who  can  tell  you  more 


NEIGHBOR  STREET  AND  GRAVES  ALLEY.      397 

than  I  can,  Mary,"  she  said,  presently.  "  You  will  find 
there  is  heart  and  help  in  the  world  that  can  only  be 
God's  own.  Believe  in  that,  and  you  will  come  to  believe 
in  Him.  You  have  seen  only  the  wrong,  bad  side,  I  am 
afraid.  The  under  side  ;  the  side  turned  down  toward  "  — 

"  Hell-fire,"  said  Mary  Moxall,  filling  Desire's  hesita 
tion  with  an  utterance  of  hard,  unrecking  distinctness. 

But  Desire  Ledwith  knew  that  the  hard  unreckingness 
was  only  the  reflex  of  a  tenderness  quick,  not  dead, 
which  the  Lord  would  not  let  go  of  to  perish. 

Sylvie  and  Hazel  came  in  below,  and  she  left  Mary 
Moxall  and  went  down  to  them.  The  three  took  leave, 
for  it  was  after  five  o'clock. 

When  they  got  out  from  the  street-car  at  Borden 
Square,  Desire  left  them,  to  go  round  by  Savin  Street, 
and  see  Mr.  Vireo.  Hazel  went  home ;  Mrs.  Ripwink- 
ley  expected  her  to-night  ;  Miss  Craydocke  and  some  of 
the  Beehive  people  were  to  come  to  tea.  Sylvie  hastened 
on  to  Greenley  Street,  anxious  to  return  to  her  mother. 
She  had  rarely  left  her,  lately,  so  long  as  this. 

How  would  it  be  when  they  had  heard  from  Mr. 
Thayne  what  she  felt  sure  they  must  hear,  —  when  they 
had  to  leave  Greenley  Street  and  go  into  that  cheap 
little  lodging-room,  and  she  had  to  stay  away  from  her 
mother  all  day  long  ? 

She  remembered  the  time  when  she  had  thought  it 
would  be  nice  to  have  a  "  few  things  ;  "  nice  to  earn  her 
own  living  ;  to  be  one  of  the  "  Other  Girls." 


398  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

CHOSEN  :   AND  CALLED. 

DESIRE  LEDWITH  found  nobody  at  home  at  Mr. 
Vireo's.  The  maid-servant  said  that  she  could  not 
tell  when  they  would  return.  Mrs.  Vireo  was  at  her 
mother's,  and  she  believed  they  would  not  come  back  to 
tea. 

Desire  knew  that  it  was  one  of  the  minister's 
chapel  nights.  She  went  away,  up  Savin  Street,  disap 
pointed  ;  wishing  that  she  could  have  sent  instant  help 
to  Mary  Moxall,  who,  she  thought,  could  not  withstand 
the  evangel  of  Hilary  Vireo's  presence.  It  is  so  sure 
that  nothing  so  instantly  brings  the  heavenly  power  to 
bear  upon  a  soul  as  contact  with  a  humanity  in  which  it 
already  abides  and  rules.  She  wanted  this  girl  to  touch 
the  hem  of  a  garment  of  earthly  living,  with  which  it 
had  clothed  itself  to  do  a  work  in  the  world.  For  the 
Christ  still  finds  and  puts  such  garments  on  to  walk  the 
earth ;  the  seamless  robes  of  undivided  consecration  to 
Himself. 

As  Desire  crossed  to  Borden  Street,  and  went  on  up 
the  hill,  there  came  suddenly  to  her  mind  recollection  of 
the  Sunday  noon,  years  since,  when  she  had  walked  over 
that  same  sidewalk  with  Kenneth  Kincaid  ;  when  he  had 
urged  her  to  take  up  Mission  work,  and  she  had  answered 
him  with  her  girlish  bluffness,  that  "  she  thought  he  did 
not  approve  of  brokering  business ;  it  was  all  there,  why 
should  they  not  take  it  for  themselves?  Why  should 
she  set  up  to  go  between?"  She  thought  how  she  had 


CHOSEN  I    AND   CALLED.  399 

learned,  since,  the  beautiful  links  of  endless  ministry  ; 
the  prismatic  law  of  mediation,  —  that  there  is  no  tint  or 
shade  of  spiritual  being,  no  angle  at  which  any  soul 
catches  the  Divine  beam,  that  does  not  join  and  melt 
into  the  next  above  and  the  next  below ;  that  the  farther 
apart  in  the  spectrum  of  humanity  the  red  of  passion 
and  the  violet  of  peace,  the  more  place  and  need  for 
every  subdivided  ray,  to  help  translate  the  whole  story 
of  the  pure,  whole  whiteness. 

She  remembered  what  she  had  said  another  time  about 
"  seeing  blue,  and  living  red."  She  was  thinking  out  by 
the  type  the  mystery  of  difference,  —  the  broken  refrac 
tions  that  God  lets  his  Spirit  fall  into,  —  when,  looking 
np  as  she  was  about  to  pass  some  person,  she  met  the  face 
of  Christopher  Kirkbright. 

He  had  not  been  at  home  of  late ;  he  had  been  busy 
up  at  Brickfield  Farms. 

For  nearly  four  months  past,  Cone  Hill  and  the  Clay 
Pits  had  been  his  by  purchase  and  legal  transfer.  He 
had  lost  no  time  in  making  his  offer  to  his  brother-in-law. 
Ten  words  by  the  Atlantic  cable  had  done  it,  and  the 
instructions  had  come  back  by  the  first  mail  steamer. 
Repairing  and  building  had  been  at  once  begun  ;  an  odd, 
rambling  wing,  thrown  out  eastward,  slanting  off  at  a 
wholly  unarchitectural  angle  from  the  main  house,  and 
climbing  the  terraced  rock  where  it  found  best  space  and 
foothold,  already  made  the  quaint  structure  look  more 
like  a  great  two-story  Chinese  puzzle  than  ever,  and 
covered  in  space  for  an  ample,  airy,  sunny  work-saloon 
above  a  range  of  smaller  rooms  calculated  for  individual 
and  home  occupancy. 

But  the  details  of  the  plan  at  Brickfields  would  make  a 
long  story  within  a  story  ;  we  may  have  further  glimpses 


400  THE    OTHER   GIRLS. 

of  it,  on  beyond ;  we  must  not  leave  our  friends  now, 
standing  in  the  street. 

Mr.  Kirkbriglit  held  out  his  hand  to  Desire,  as  he 
stopped  to  speak  with  her. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  Vireo's,"  he  said.  "  I  have  come 
to  a  place  in  my  work  where  I  want  him." 

"  So  have  I,"  said  Desire.  "  But  he  is  not  at  home. 
I  was  going  next  to  Miss  Euphrasia." 

"  And  you  and  I  are  sent  to  stop  each  other.  My  sis 
ter  is  away,  at  Milton,  for  two  days." 

Desire  turned  round.  "  Then  I  must  go  home  again," 
she  said. 

Mr.  Kirkbright  moved  on,  down  the  hill  beside  her. 

u  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Desire,  pausing,  and  looking  gravely 
up  at  him.  "  If  you  could  go  down  to  Luclarion  Grapp's, 
—  the  Neighbors,  you  know,  —  and  carry  some  kind  of  a 
promise  to  a  poor  thing  who  has  just  been  brought  there, 
and  who  thinks  there  is  no  promise  in  the  world ;  a 
woman  who  tried  to  kill  her  baby  to  get  him  out  of  it, 
and  who  says  that  the  world  is  hell,  and  people  don't 
know  they've  got  into  it.  Go  and  tell  her  some  of  the 
things  you  told  me,  that  morning  up  at  Brickfields." 

"  You  have  been  to  her  ?  What  have  you  told  her 
yourself,  already  ?  " 

"  I  told  her  that  it  was  not  all  badness  when  one  could 
feel  the  misery  of  the  badness.  That  her  pain  at  it  was 
God's  pain  for  her.  That  if  He  had  done  with  her,  she 
would  be  dead." 

"  Would  she  believe  you  ?  Did  she  seem  to  begin  to 
believe  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  she  believes  anything.  She  can't, 
until  the  things  to  believe  in  come  to  her.  Mr.  Vireo  — 


CHOSEN:  AND  CALLED.  40l 

• 

or  you  —  would  make  her  see.  I  told  her  I  would  send 
somebody  who  had  more  for  her  than  I." 

"  You  have  told  her  the  first  message,  — that  the  king 
dom  is  at  hand.  The  Christ-errand  must  be  done  next. 
The  full  errand  of  help.  That  was  what  was  sent  to  the 
world,  after  the  voice  had  cried  in  the  wilderness.  It 
'isn't  Mr.  Vireo  or  I,  — but  the  helping  hand  ;  the  right 
ing  of  condition ;  the  giving  of  the  new  chance.  We 
must  not  leave  all  that  to  death  and  the  angels.  Miss 
Desire,  this  woman  must  go  to  our  mountain-refuge  ;  to 
our  sanatorium  of  souls.  I  have  a  good  deal  to  tell  you 
about  that." 

They  had  walked  on  again,  as  they  talked ;  they  had 
come  to  the  foot  of  Borden  Street.  They  must  now  turn 
two  different  ways. 

They  were  standing  a  moment  at  the  corner,  as  Mr. 
Kirkbright  spoke.  When  he  said  "our  refuge,  —  our 
sanatorium,"  —  Desire  blushed  again  as  she  had  blushed 
at  Brickfields. 

She  was  provoked  at  herself ;  why  need  personal  pro 
nouns  come  in  at  all?  Why,  if  they  did,  need  they 
remind  her  of  herself  and  him,  instead  of  merely  the 
thoughts  that  they  had  had  together,  the  intent  of  which 
was  high  above  them  both  ?  Why  need  she  be  pleased 
and  shy  in  her  selfhood,  —  ashamed  lest  he  should  detect 
the  thought  of  pleasure  in  her  at  his  sharing  with  her  his 
grand  purpose,  recognizing  in  her  the  echo  of  his  inspira 
tion  ?  What  made  it  so  different  that  Christopher  Kirk- 
bright  should  discover  and  acknowledge  such  a  sympathy 
between  them,  from  her  meeting  it,  as  she  had  long  done, 
in  Miss  Euphrasia  ? 

She  would  not  let  it  be  different ;  she  would  not  be 
such  a  fool. 


402  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

It  was  twilight,  and  her  little  lace  veil  was  down.  She 
took  courage  behind  it,  and  in  her  resolve,  —  for  she 
knew  that  to  be  very  determined  would  make  her  pale, 
not  red ;  and  the  next  time  she  would  be  on  her  guard, 
and  very  determined. 

She  gave  him  the  hand  he  held  out  his  own  for,  and 
bade  him  good  evening,  with  her  head  lifted  just  imper 
ceptibly  higher  than  was  its  wont,  and  her  face  turned 
full  toward  him.  Her  eyes  met  his  with  an  honest  calm 
ness  ;  she  had  summoned  herself  back. 

He  saw  strength  and  earnestness  ;  a  flush  of  feeling ; 
the  face  of  a  woman  made  to  look  nobleness  and  enthu 
siasm  into  the  soul  of  a  man. 

She  sat  in  the  library  that  evening  at  nine  o'clock. 

She  had  drawn  up  her  large  chair  to  the  open  fire  ;  her 
feet  were  resting  on  the  low  fender  ;  her  eyes  were  watch 
ing  shapes  in  the  coals. 

Mrs.  Lewes's  "  Middlemarch"  lay  on  her  lap  ;  she  had 
just  begun  to  read  it.  Her  hands,  crossed  upon  each 
other,  had  fallen  upon  the  page ;  she  had  found  some 
thing  of  herself  in  those  first  chapters.  Something  that 
reminded  of  her  old  longings  and  hindrances  ;  of  the  shal- 
lowness  and  half-living  that  had  been  about  her,  and  the 
chafe  of  her  discontent  in  it. 

She  did  not  wonder  that  Dorothea  was  going  to  marry 
Mr.  Casaubon.  Into  some  dream-trap  just  such  as  that 
she  might  have  fallen,  had  a  Mr.  Casaubon  come  in  her 
way. 

Instead,  had  come  pain  and  mistake  ;  a  keen  self-search 
ing  ;  a  learning  to  bear  with  all  her  might,  to  work,  and 
to  wait. 

She  had  not  been  waiting  for  any  making  good  in  God's 


CHOSEN  :   AND   CALLED.  403 

Providence  of  that  special  happiness  which  had  passed  her 
by.  If  she  had,  she  would  not  have  been  doing  the  sort 
of  work  she  had  taken  into  her  hands.  When  we  wait 
for  one  particular  hope,  and  will  not  be  satisfied  with  any 
other,  the  whole  force  of  ourselves  bends  toward  it ;  we 
dictate  to  life,  and  wrest  its  tendencies  at  every  turn. 

The  thing  comes.  Ask,  —  with  the  real  might  of 
whatever  asking  there  is  in  you,  —  and  it  shall  be  given 
you.  But  when  you  have  got  it,  it  may  not  be  the  thing 
you  thought  it  would  be.  Whosoever  will  have  his  life 
shall  lose  it. 

No  ;  Desire  Ledwith  had  rather  turned  away  from  all 
special  hope,  thinking  it  was  over  for  her.  But  she  came 
to  believe  that  all  the  good  in  God's^long  years  was  not 
over ;  that  she  had  not  been  hindered  from  one  thing, 
save  to  be  kept  for  some  other  that  He  saw  better.  She 
was  willing  to  wait  for  his  better,  —  his  best.  When 
she  paused  to  look  at  her  life  objectively,  she  rejoiced  in 
it  as  the  one  thread  —  a  thread  of  changing  colors  —  in 
God's  manifold  work,  that  He  was  letting  her  follow  alone 
with  Him,  and  showing  her  the  secret  beauty  of.  Up 
and  down,  in  and  out,  backward  and  forward,  she  wrought 
it  after  his  pattern,  and  discerned  continually  where  it  fell 
into  combinations  that  she  had  never  planned,  —  made 
surprises  for  her  of  effects  that  were  not  her  own.  There 
is  much  ridicule  of  mere  tapestry  and  broidery  work,  as  a 
business  for  women's  fingers ;  but  I  think  the  secret, 
uninterpreted  charm  of  it,  to  the  silliest  sorters  of  colors 
and  counters  of  stitches,  is  beyond  the  fact,  as  the  beauty 
of  children's  plays  is  the  parable  they  cannot  help  having 
in  them.  Patient  and  careful  doing,  after  a  law  and  rule, 
—  and  the  gradual  apparition  of  result,  foreseen  by  the 
deviser  of  the  law  and  rule  ;  it  is  life  measured  out  upon 


404  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

a  canvas.  Who  knows  how,  —  in  this  spiritual  Kinder 
garten  of  a  world,  —  the  rudiments  of  all  small  human 
devices  were  set  in  human  faculty  and  aptness  for  its 
own  object-teaching  toward  a  perfect  heavenly  enlighten 
ment  ? 

Desire  was  thinking  to-night,  how  impossible  it  is,  as 
the  pattern  of  life  grows,  to  help  seeing  a  little  of  the 
shapes  it  may  be  taking ;  to  refrain  from  a  looking  for 
ward  that  becomes  eager  with  a  hint  of  possible  un 
folding. 

Once,  a  while  ago,  she  had  thought  that  she  discerned 
a  green  beauty  springing  out  from  the  dull,  half-filled 
background ;  tender  leaves  forming  about  a  bare  and 
awkward  shoot ;  but  suddenly  there  were  no  more  stitches 
in  that  direction  that  she  could  set ;  the  leaves  stopped 
short  in  half -developed  curves  that  never  were  completed. 
The  pattern  set  before  her  —  given  but  one  bit  at  a  time, 
as  life  patterns  are,  like  part  etchings  of  a  picture  in 
which  you  know  not  how  the  spaces  are  to  be  filled  up 
and  related  —  changed  ;  the  place,  and  the  tint  of  the 
thread,  changed  also ;  she  had  to  work  on  in  a  new  part, 
and  in  a  different  way.  She  could  not  discover  then, 
that  these  abortive  leaves  were  the  slender  claspings  of 
a  calyx,  in  whose  midst  might  sometime  fit  the  rose- 
bloom  of  a  wonderful  joy.  Was  she  discovering  it  now  ? 
For  browns  and  grays,  —  generous  and  strong,  tender  and 
restful,  —  was  a  flush  of  blossom  hues  that  she  had  not 
looked  for,  coming  to  be  woven  in  ?  Was  the  empty 
calyx  showing  the  first  shadowy  petal-shapes  of  a  most 
perfect  flower  ? 

It  might  be  the  flower  of  a  gracious  friendship  only ; 
a  joining  of  hands  in  work  for  the  kingdom-building;  she 
did  not  let  herself  go  farther  than  this.  But  it  was  a 


CHOSEN  :   AND    CALLED.  405 

friendship  across  which  there  lay  no  bar ;  and  somehow, 
while  she  put  from  herself  the  thought  that  it  might  ever 
be  so  promised  to  her  as  to  be  hers  of  all  the  world  and 
to  the  world's  exclusion,  —  while  she  resented  in  herself 
that  foolish  girl's  blush,  and  resolved  that  it  should  never 
come  again,  —  she  sat  here  to-night  thinking  how  grand 
and  perfect  a  thing  for  a  woman  a  grand  man's  friendship 
is  ;  how  it  is  different  from  any,  the  most  pure  and  sweet, 
of  woman-tenderness  ;  how  the  crossing  of  her  path  with 
such  a  path  as  Christopher  Kirkbright's,  if  it  were  only 
once  a  day,  or  once  a  week,  or  once  a  month,  would  be  a 
thing  to  reckon  joy  and  courage  from  ;  to  live  on  from,  as 
she  lived  on  from  her  prayers. 

An  hour  had  come  in  her  life  which  gathered  about 
her  realities  of  heaven,  whether  the  earthly  correspond 
ence  should  concur,  or  no.  A  noble  influence  which  had 
met  and  moved  her,  seemed  to  come  and  abide  about  her, 
—  a  thought-presence. 

And  a  thought-presence  was  precisely  what  it  was.  A 
thousand  circumstances  may  stretch  that  hyphen  which 
at  once  links  and  separates  the  sign-syllables  of  the  won 
derful  fact ;  an  impossibility,  of  physical  conditions,  may 
be  between  ;  but  the  fact  subsists  —  and  in  rare  moments 
we  know  it  —  when  that  which  belongs  to  us  comes  invis 
ibly  and  takes  us  to  itself;  when  we  feel  the  footsteps 
afar  off  which  may  or  may  not  be  feet  of  the  flesh  turned 
toward  us.  Yet  even  this  conjunction  does  happen,  now 
and  again  ;  the  will  —  the  blessed  purpose  —  is  accom 
plished  at  once  on  earth  and  in  heaven. 

When  many  minutes  after  the  city  bells  had  ceased  to 
sound  for  nine  o'clock,  the  bell  of  her  own  door  rang  with 
a  clear,  strong  stroke,  Desire  Ledwith  thought  instantly 
of  Mr.  Kirkbright  with  a  singular  recall,  —  that  was  less 


406  THE    OTHER   GIKLS. 

a  change  than  a  transfer  of  the  same  perception,  —  from 
the  inward  to  the  actual.  She  had  no  reason  to  suppose 
it,  —  no  ordinary  reason  why,  —  but  she  was  suddenly 
persuaded  that  the  friend  who  in  the  last  hour  had  stood 
spiritually  beside  her,  stood  now,  in  reality,  upon  her  door- 
stone. 

She  did  not  even  wonder  for  what  he  could  have  come. 
She  did  not  move  from  her  chair  ;  she  did  not  lift  her 
crossed  hands  from  off  her  open  book.  She  did  not  break 
the  external  conditions  in  which  unseen  forces  had  been 
acting.  If  she  had  moved,  —  pushed  back  her  chair,  — 
put  by  her  book,  —  it  would  have  begun  to  seem  strange  ; 
she  would  have  been  back  in  a  bond  of  circumstance 
'which  would  have  embarrassed  her  ;  she  would  have  been 
receiving  an  evening  call  at  an  unusual  hour.  But  to 
have  the  verity  come  in  and  fill  the  dream,  —  this  was 
not  strange.  And  yet  Christopher  Kirkbright  had 
scarcely  been  in  that  house  ten  times  before. 

She  heard  him  ask  if  Miss  Ledwith  were  still  below ; 
if  he  might  see  her.  She  heard  Frendely  close  the  outer 
door,  and  precede  him  toward  the  door  of  the  library. 
He  entered,  and  she  lifted  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  move,"  he  said  quickly.  "  I  have  been  seeing 
you  sitting  like  that,  all  the  evening.  It  is  a  reverie 
come  true.  Only  I  have  walked  out  of  my  end  of  it, 
and  into  yours.  May  I  stay  a  little  while  ?  " 

Her  face  answered  him  in  a  very  natural  way.  There 
was  a  wonder  in  her  eyes,  and  in  the  smile  that  crept 
over  her  lips  ;  there  were  ^vender  and  waiting  in  the 
silence  which  she  kept,  answering  in  her  face  only,  at  the 
first,  that  peculiar  greeting.  Perhaps  any  woman,  who 
had  had  no  dream,  would  have  found  other  response  as 
difficult. 


CHOSEN  :    AND   CALLED.  407 

"  I  am  going  back  to  Brickfields  to-morrow.  I  am 
more  eager  than  ever  to  get  the  home  finished  there,  for 
those  who  are  waiting  for  its  shelter.  I  have  had  a  busy 

day, a  busy  evening  ;  it  has  not  been  a  still  reverie  in 

which  I  have  seen  you.  In  this  last  half  hour,  I  have 
been  with  Vireo.  He  has  found  a  woman  for  me  who 
can  be  a  directress  of  work  ;  can  manage  the  sewing- 
room.  A  good  woman,  too,  who  will  mother  —  not 
4  matron  '  —  the  girls.  I  have  bought  five  machines. 
They  will  make  their  own  garments  first ;  then  they  will 
work  for  pay,  some  hours  each  day,  or  a  day  or  two  every 
week,  —  in  turn.  That  money  will  be  their  own.  The 
rest  of  the  time  will  be  due  to  the  commonwealth. 
There  will  be  a  farm-kitchen,  where  they  will  cook  - 
and  learn  to  cook  well  —  for  the  farm  hands  ;  they  will 
wash  and  iron;  they  will  take  care  of  fruit  and  poultry. 
As  they  learn  the  various  employments,  they  will  take 
their  place  as  teachers  to  new-comers  ;  we  shall  keep  them 
busy,  and  shall  make  a  life  around  them,  that  will  be 
worth  their  laboring  for  ;  as  God  makes  all  the  beauty  of 
the  world  for  us  to  live  in,  in  compensation  for  the  little 
that  He  leaves  it  needful  for  us  to  do.  There  is  where  I 
think  our  privilege  comes  in,  after  the  similitude  of  his ; 
to  supplement  broadly  that  which  shall  not  hinder  honest 
and  conditional  exertion.  I  have  been  longing  to  tell  you 
about  it ;  I  have  had  a  vision  of  you  in  the  midst  of  my 
work  and  talk ;  I  have  had  a  feeling  of  you  this  evening, 
waiting  just  so  and  there ;  I  had  to  come.  I  went  to  see 
your  Mary  Moxall,  Miss  Desire." 

"  In  the  midst  of  all  you  had  to  do  !  " 

"  Was  it  not  a  part?     'All  in  the  day's  work'  is  a 
good  proverb." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her  ?  " 


408  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  I  asked  her  if  she  would  come  up  into  the  country 
with  my  sister,  to  a  home  among  great,  still,  beautiful 
hills,  and  take  care  of  her  baby,  and  some  flowers." 

44  It  was  like  asking  her  to  come  home  —  to  God  !  " 

uYes,  —  I  think  it  was  asking  her  God's  way.  How 
can  we,  standing  among  all  the  helps  and  harmonies  of 
our  lives,  ask  them  to  come  straight  up  to  Him,  —  His 
invisible  unapproachable  Self,  —  out  of  the  terrible  dark 
ness  and  chaos  of  theirs?  There  are  no  steps." 

44  Tell  me  more  about  the  steps  you  have  been  making 
—  in  the  hills.  You  said  4  flowers.' ' 

44  Yes ;  there  will  be  a  conservatory.  I  must  have 
them  all  the  year  through  ;  the  short  summer  gardening 
would  not  be  ministry  enough.  Beyond  the  Chapel 
Rock  runs  back  a  large  new  wing,  with  sewing  and  liv 
ing  rooms ;  they  only  wait  good  weather  for  finishing. 
A  dozen  women  can  live  and  work  there.  As  they  grow 
fit  and  willing,  and  numerous  enough  to  colonize  off, 
there  are  little  houses  to  be  built  that  they  can  move  into, 
set  up  homes,  earn  their  machines,  and  at  last,  in  cases 
where  it  proves  safe  and  wise,  their  homes  themselves. 
I  shall  provide  a  depot  for  their  needlework  in  the  city  ; 
and  as  the  village  grows  it  will  create  a  little  demand  of 
its  own.  Mr.  Thayne  is  going  to  build  the  cottages ; 
and  he  and  I  have  contracted  for  the  seven  miles  of  rail 
road  to  Tillington,  as  a  private  enterprise.  The  brick- 
making  is  to  begin  at  once  ;  we  shall  do  something  for  the 
building  of  the  new,  fire-proof  Boston.  Your  thought 
is  growing  into  a  fact,  Miss  Desire  ;  and  I  think  I  have 
not  forgotten  any  particular  of  it.  Now,  I  have  come 
back  to  you  for  more,  —  a  great  deal  more,  if  I  can  get 
it.  First,  a  name.  We  can't  call  it  a  City  of  Refuge, 
beautiful  as  such  a  city  is  —  to  be.  Neither  will  I  call 


CHOSEN  :    AND    CALLED.  409 

it  a  Home,  or  an  Asylum.  The  first  thing  Mary  Moxall 
said  to  me  was,  — c  I  won't  go  to  no  Refuges  nor  Sile'- 
ums.  I  don't  want  to  be  raked  up,  mud  an'  all,  into  a 
heap  that  everybody  knows  the  name  of.  If  the  world 
was  big  enough  for  me  to  begin  again,  —  in  a  clean  place  ; 
but  there  ain't  no  clean  places !  '  And  then  I  asked  her 
to  come  home  with  me  and  my  sister." 

"You  mean,  of  course,  a  neighborhood  name,  for  the 
settlement,  as  it  grows  ?  " 

"  Exactly.  '  Brickfield  Farms  '  belongs  to  the  outlying 
husbandry  and  homesteads.  And  c  Clay  Pits  ! '  It  is  out 
of  the  pit  and  the  miry  clay  that  we  want  to  bring  them. 
The  suggestion  of  that  is  too  much  like  Mary  Moxall's 
1  heap  that  everybody  knows  the  name  of.'  v 

"  Why  not  call  it  '  Hill-hope  '  ?  *  The  hills,  whence 
conieth  our  strength ; '  4  the  mountain  of  the  height  of 
Israel  where  the  Lord  will  plant  it,  and  the  dry  tree  shall 
flourish  '  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Kirkbright,  heartily.  "  That 
is  the  right  word.  It  is  named." 

Desire  said  nothing.  She  looked  quietly  into  the  fire 
with  a  flush  of  deep  pleasure  on  her  face.  Mr.  Kirk- 
bright  remained  silent  also  for  a  few  minutes. 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  there,  in  this  room  that 
was  her  own  ;  that  was  filled  with  home-feeling  and  asso 
ciation  for  her  ;  where  a  solemnly  tender  commission  and 
opportunity  had  been  given  her,  and  had  centred,  and  he 
almost  doubted  whether  the  thing  that  was  urging  itself 
with  him  to  be  asked  for  last  and  greatest  of  all,  were 
right  to  ask  ;  whether  it  existed  for  him,  and  a  way  could 
be  made  for  it  to  be  given  him.  Yet  the  question  was  in 
him,  strong  and  earnest ;  a  question  that  had  never  been 
in  him  before  to  ask  of  any  woman.  Why  had  it  been 


410  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

put  there  if  it  might  not  at  least  be  spoken  ?  If  there 
were  not  possibly,  in  this  woman's  keeping,  the  ordained 
and  perfect  answer  ? 

While  he  sat  and  scrupled  about  it,  it  sprang,  with  an 
impulse  that  he  did  not  stop  to  scruple  at,  to  his  lips. 

"  I  shall  want  to  ask  you  questions  every  day,  dear 
friend!  What  are  we  to  do  about  it?  " 

Desire's  eyes  flashed  up  at  him  with  a  happiness  in 
them  that  waited  not  to  weigh  anything ;  that  he  could 
not  mistake.  The  color  was  bright  upon  her  cheek  ;  her 
lips  were  soft  and  tremulous.  Then  the  eyes  dropped 
gently  away  again  ;  she  answered  nothing,  —  with  words. 

So  far  as  he  had  spoken,  she  had  answered. 

u  I  want  you  there,  by  my  side,  to  help  me  make  a  real 
human  home  around  which  other  homes  may  grow. 
There  ought  to  be  a  heart  in  it,  and  I  cannot  do  it  alone. 
Could  you  —  will  you  —  come  ?  Will  you  be  to  me  the 
one  woman  of  the  world,  and  out  of  your  purity  and 
strength  help  me  to  help  your  sisters  ?  " 

He  had  risen  and  walked  the  few  steps  across  the  dis 
tance  that  was  between  them.  He  stopped  before  her, 
and  bending  toward  her,  held  out  his  hands. 

Desire  stood  up  and  laid  hers  in  them. 

"  It  must  be  right.  You  have  come  for  me.  I  cannot 
possibly  do  otherwise  than  this." 

The  deep,  gracious,  divine  fact  had  asserted  itself.  A 
house  here,  or  a  house  there  could  not  change  or  bind  it. 
They  belonged  together.  There  was  a  new  love  in  the 
world,  and  the  world  would  have  to  arrange  itself  around 
it.  Around  it  and  the  Will  that  it  was  to  be  wedded  to 
do. 

They  stood  together,  hands  in  hands.  Christopher 
Kirkbright  leaned  over  and  laid  his  lips  against  her  fore 
head. 


CHOSEN:  AND  CALLED.  411 

He  whispered  her  name,  set  in  other  syllables  that 
were  only  for  him  to  say  to  her.  I  shall  not  say  them 
over  on  this  page  to  you. 

But  there  is  a  line  in  the  blessed  Scripture  that  we  all 
know,  and  God  had  fulfilled  it  to  his  heart. 

Strangely  —  more  strangely  than  any  story  can  con 
trive  —  are  the  happenings  of  life  put  side  by  side. 

As  they  sat  there  a  little  longer  in  the  quiet  library, 
forgetting  the.  late  evening  hour,  because  it  was  morning 
all  at  once  to  them ;  forgetting  Sylvie  Argenter  and  her 
mother  as  they  were  at  just  this  moment  in  the  next 
room ;  only  remembering  them  among  those  whom  this 
new  relation  and  joining  of  purpose  must  make  surer  and 
safer,  not  less  carefully  provided  for  in  the  changes  that 
would  occur,  —  the  door  of  the  gray  parlor  opened  ;  a 
quick  step  fell  along  the  passage,  and  Sylvie  unlatched 
the  library  door,  and  stood  in  the  entrance  wide-eyed  and 
pale. 

"  Desire !     Come  !  " 

"  Sylvie  !  What,  dear  ?  "  cried  Desire,  quickly,  as  she 
sprang  to  meet  her,  her  voice  chording  responsive  to 
Sylvie's  own,  catching  in  it  the  indescribable  tone  that 
tells  so  much  more  than  words.  She  did  not  need  the 
further  revelation  of  her  face  to  know  that  something 
deep  and  strange  had  happened. 

Sylvie  said  not  a  syllable  more,  but  turned  and  hurried 
back  along  the  hall. 

Desire  and  Mr.  Kirkbright  followed  her. 

Mrs.  Argenter  was  sitting  in  the  deep  corner  of  hei 
broad,  low  sofa,  against  the  two  large  pillows. 

"  A  minute  ago,"  said  Sylvie,  in  the  same  changed 
voice,  that  spoke  out  of  a  different  world  from  the  world 
of  five  minutes  before,  "  she  was  here  !  She  gave  me 


412  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

her  plate  to  put  away  on  the  sideboard,  and  now,  —  when 
I  turned  round,"  — 

She  was  There. 

The  plate,  with  its  bits  of  orange-rind,  and  an  untasted 
section  of  the  fruit,  stood  upon  the  sideboard;  The  book 
she  had  been  reading  fifteen  minutes  since  lay,  with  her 
eye-glasses  inside  it,  at  the  page  where  she  had  stopped, 
upon  the  couch ;  her  left  hand  had  fallen,  palm  upward, 
upon  the  cushioned  seat ;  her  life  had  gone  instantly  and 
without  a  sign,  out  from  her  mortal  body. 

Mrs.  Argenter  had  died  of  that  disease  which  lets  the 
spirit  free  like  the  uncaging  of  a  bird. 

Hypertrophy  of  the  heart.  The  gradual  thickening  and 
hardening  of  those  mysterious  little  gates  of  life  and  the 
walls  in  which  they  are  set ;  the  slower  moving  of  them 
on  their  palpitating  hinges,  till  a  moment  comes  when 
they  open  or  close  for  the  last  time,  and  in  that  pause 
ajar  the  soul  flits  out,  like  some  curious,  unwary  thing, 
over  a  threshold  it  may  pass  no  more  again,  forever. 


EASTER  LILIES.  413 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

EASTER    LILIES. 

I> RIGHT,  soft  days  began  to  come;  days  in  which 
'  windows  stood  open,  and  pots  of  plants  were  set  out 
on  the  window-sills  ;  days  alternating  as  in  the  long,  New 
England  spring  they  always  do,  with  bleak  intervals  of 
sharp  winds  and  cold  sea-storms  ;  yet  giving  sweet  antici 
pation  tenderly,  as  a  mother  gives  beforehand  that  which 
she  cannot  find  in  her  heart  to  keep  back  till  the  birth 
day.  That  is  the  charm  of  Nature  with  us ;  the  mother- 
liness  in  her  that  offsets,  and  breaks  through  with  loving 
impulse,  her  rule  of  rigidness.  The  year  comes  slowly 
to  its  growth,  but  she  relaxes  toward  it  with  a  kind  of 
pity,  and  says,  "  There,  take  this !  It  isn't  time  for  it, 
but  you  needn't  wait  for  everything  till  you're  grown 
up!" 

People  feel  happy,  in  advance  of  all  their  hopes  and 
realizations,  on  such  days;  the  ripeness  of  the  year,  in 
whatever  good  it  may  be  making  for  them,  touches  them 
like  the  soft  air  that  blows  up  from  the  south.  There  is 
a  new  look  on  men's  and  women's  faces  as  you  meet 
them  in  the  street ;  a  New  Jerusalem  sort  of  look ;  the 
heavens  are  opened  upon  them,  and  the  divineness  of  sun 
shine  flows  in  through  sense  and  spirit. 

Sylvie  Argenter  was  very  peaceful.  She  told  Desire 
that  she  never  would  be  afraid  again  in  all  her  life  ;  she 
knew  how  things  were  measured,  now.  She  was  "  so  glad 
the  money  had  almost  all  been  spent  while  mother  lived  ; 
that  not  a  dollar  that  could  buy  her  a  comfort  had  been 
kept  back." 


414  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

She  was  quite  content  to  stay  now ;  at  least  till  Rachel 
Froke  should  come  ;  she  was  busily  helping  Desire  with 
her  wedding  outfit.  She  was  willing  to  receive  from  her 
the  fair  wages  of  a  seamstress,  now  that  she  could  freely 
give  her  time,  and  there  was  no  one  to  accept  and  use1  an 
invalid's  expensive  luxuries. 

Desire  would  not  have  thought  it  needful  that  hundreds 
of  extra  yards  of  cambric  and  linen  should  be  made  up 
for  her,  simply  because  she  was  going  to  be  married,  if  it 
had  not  been  that  her  marriage  was  to  be  so  especially  a 
beginning  of  new  life  and  work,  in  which  she  did  not 
wish  to  be  crippled  by  any  present  care  for  self. 

"  I  see  the  sense  of  it  now,  so  far  as  concerns  quantity ; 
as  for  quality,  I  will  have  nothing  different  from  what  I 
have  always  had." 

There  was  no  trousseau  to  exhibit ;  there  were  only 
trunks-full  of  good  plenishing  that  would  last  for  years. 

Sylvie  cut  out,  and  parceled.  Elise  Mokey,  and  one 
or  two  other  girls  who  had  had  only  precarious  employ 
ment  and  Committee  "  relief  "  since  the  fire,  had  the 
stitching  given  them  to  do  ;  and  every  tuck  and  hem  was 
justly  paid  for.  When  the  work  came  back  from  their 
hands,  Sylvie  finished  and  marked  delicately. 

She  had  the  sunny  little  room,  now,  over  the  gray  par- 
lar,  adjoining  Desire's  own.  The  white  box  lay  upon  a 
round,  damask-covered-stand  in  the  corner,  under  her 
mother's  picture  painted  in  the  graceful  days  of  the  gray 
silks  and  llama  laces ;  and  around  this,  drooping  and 
trailing  till  they  touched  the  little  table  and  veiled  the 
box  that  held  the  beautiful  secret,  —  seeming  to  say, 
"  We  know  it  too,  for  we  are  a  part,"  •  -wreathed  the 
shining  sprays  of  blossomy  fern. 

In  these  sunny  days  of  early  spring,  Sylvie  could  not 


EASTER  LILIES.  415 

help  being  happy.  The  snows  were  gone  now,  except  in 
deep,  dark  places,  out  of  the  woods  ;  the  ferns  and  vines 
and  grasses  were  alive  and  eager  for  a  new  summer's 
grace  and  fullness  ;  their  far-off  presence  made  the  air 
different,  already,  from  the  airs  of  winter. 

Yet  Rodney  Sherrett  had  kept  silence. 

All  these  weeks  had  gone  by,  and  Miss  Euphrasia  had 
had  no  answer  from  over  the  water.  Of  all  the  letters 
that  went  safely  into  mail  bags,  and  of  all  the  mail  bags 
that  went  as  they  were  bound,  and  of  all  the  white  mes 
sages  that  were  scattered  like  doves  when  those  bags  were 
opened,  —  somehow  —  it  can  never  be  told  how,  —  that 
particular  little  white,  folded  sheet  got  mishandled,  mis 
laid,  or  missent,  and  failed  of  its  errand  ;  and  at  the  time 
when  Miss  Euphrasia  began  to  be  convinced  that  it  must 
be  so,  there  came  a  letter  from  Mr.  Sherrett  to  herself, 
written  from  London,  where  he  had  just  arrived  after  a 
visit  to  Berlin. 

"  I  have  had  no  family  news,"  he  wrote,  "  of  later 
date  than  January  20th.  Trust  all  is  well.  Shall  sail 
from  Liverpool  on  the  9th." 

The  date  of  that  was  March  20th. 

The  fourteenth  of  April,  Easter  Monday,  was  fixed  for 
Desire  Ledwith's  marriage. 

Rachel  Froke  came  back  on  the  Friday  previous. 
Desire  would  have  her  in  time,  but  not  for  any  fatigues. 

The  gray  parlor  was  all  ready  ;  everything  just  as  it 
had  been  before  she  left  it.  The  ivies  had  been  carefully 
tended,  and  the  golden  and  brown  canary  was  singing  in 
his  cage.  There  was  nothing  to  remind  of  the  different 
life  to  which  the  place  had  been  lent,  making  its  last 
hours  restful  and  pleasant,  or  of  the  death  that  had 
stepped  so  noiselessly  and  solemnly  in. 


416  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Desire  had  formally  made  over  this  house  to  her  cousin 
and  co-heiress,  Hazel  Ripwinkley. 

"  It  must  never  be  left  waiting,  a  mere  possible  con 
venience,  for  anybody,"  she  said.  "  There  must  be  a 
real  life  in  it,  as  long  as  we  can  order  it  so." 

The  Ripwinkleys  were  to  leave  Aspen  Street,  and  come 
here  with  Hazel.  Miss  Craydocke,  who  never  had  half 
room  enough  in  Orchard  Street,  was  to  "  spill  over " 
from  the  Bee-hive  into  the  Mile-hill  house.  "  She  knew 
just  whom  to  put  there  ;  people  who  would  take  care  and 
comfort.  There  shouldn't  be  any  hurt,  and  there  would 
be  lots  of  help." 

There  was  a  widow  with  three  daughters,  to  begin 
with ;  "  just  as  neat  as  a  row  of  pins  ; "  but  who  had 
had  less  and  less  to  be  neat  with  for  seven  years  past ; 
one  of  the  daughters  had  just  got  a  situation  as  composi 
tor,  and  another  as  a  book-keeper ;  between  them,  they 
could  earn  twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year.  The  youngest 
had  to  stay  at  home  and  help  her  mother  do  the  work, 
that  they  might  all  keep  together.  They  could  pay  three 
hundred  dollars  for  four  rooms  ;  but  of  course  they 
could  not  get  decent  ones,  in  a  decent  neighborhood,  for 
that.  That  was  what  Bee-hives  were  for ;  houses  that 
other  people  could  do  without. 

Hazel  had  her  wish;  it  came  to  pass  that  they  also 
should  make  a  bee-hive. 

"  And  whenever  I  marry,"  Hazel  said,  "  I  hope  he 
won't  be  building  a  town  of  his  own  to  take  me  to  ;  for  I 
shall  have  to  bring  him  here.  I'm  the  last  of  the  line." 

"  That  will  all  be  taken  care  of  as  the  rest  has  been. 
There  isn't  half  as  much  left  for  us  to  manage  as  we 
think,"  said  Desire,  putting  back  into  the  desk  the  copy 
of  Uncle  Titus's  will  which  they  had  been  reading  over 


EASIER  LILIES.  417 

together.  "  He  knew  the  executorship  into  which  he 
gave  it." 

Shall  I  stop  here  with  them  until  the  Easter  tide,  and 
finish  telling  you  how  it  all  was  ?  9 

There  is  a  little  bit  about  Bel  Bree  and  Kate  Sencer- 
box  and  the  Schermans,  which  belongs  somewhat  earlier 
than  that,  —  in  those  few  pleasant  days  when  March  was 
beguiling  us  to  believe  in  the  more  engaging  of  his  double 
moods,  and  in  the  possibility  of  his  behaving  sweetly  at 
the  end,  and  going  out  after  all  like  a  lamb. 

We  can  turn  back  afterwards  for  that.  I  think  you 
would  like  to  hear  about  the  wedding. 

Does  it  never  occur  to  you  that  this  "going  back  and 
living  up  "  in  a  story-book  is  a  sign  of  a  possibility  that 
may  be  laid  by  in  the  divine  story-telling,  for  the  things 
we  have  to  hurry  away  from,  and  miss  of,  now  ?  It  does 
to  me.  I  know  that  That  can  manage  at  least  as  well  as 
mine  can. 

Christopher  Kirkbright  and  Desire  Ledwith  were  mar 
ried  in  the  library,  where  they  had  betrothed  themselves  ; 
where  Desire  had  felt  all  the  sacredness  of  her  life  laid 
upon  her ;  where  she  took  up  now  another  trust,  that  was 
only  an  outgrowth  and  expansion  qf  the  first,  and  for 
which  she  laid  down  nothing  of  its  spirit  and  intent. 

Mrs.  Ledwith  and  the  sisters  —  Mrs.  Megilp  and 
Glossy  —  were  there,  of  course. 

Mrs.  Megilp  had  said  over  to  herself  little  imaginary 
speeches  about  the  homestead  and  old  associations,  and 
"Daisy's  great  love  and  reverence  for  all  that  touched 
the  memory  of  her  uncle,  to  whom  she  certainly  owed 
everything ; "  about  the  journey  to  New  York,  and  the 
few  days  they  had  to  give  there  to  Mr.  Oldway's  life-long 

27 


418  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

friend  and  Desire's  adviser,  Mr.  Marmaduke  Wharae 
(*'  Sir  Marmaduke  he  would  be,  everybody  knew,  if  lie 
had  chosen  to  claim,  the  English  title  that  belonged  to 
him  "),  —  who  was  tqp  infirm  to  come  on  to  the  wed 
ding  ;  and  the  necessity  there  was  for  them  to  go  as  fast 
as  possible  to  their  estate  in  the  country,  —  Hill-hope,  — 
where  Mr.  Kirkbright  was  building  "  mills  and  a  village 
and  a  perfect  castle  of  a  house,  and  a  private  railroad  and 
heaven  knows  what,"  —  all  this  to  account,  indirectly,  for 
the  quiet  little  ordinary  ceremony,  which  of  course  would 
otherwise  have  been  at  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Com 
mandments  ;  or  at  least  up-stairs  in  the  long,  stately  old 
drawing-room  which  was  hardly  ever  used. 

But  none  of  the  people  were  there  to  whom  any  such 
little  speeches  had  to  be  made ;  nobody  who  nee'ded  any- 
accounting  to  for  its  oddity  was  present  at  Desire  Led- 
with's  wedding. 

Mr.  Vireo  officiated ;  there  was  something  in  his 
method  and  manner  which  Mrs.  Megilp  decidedly  ob 
jected  to. 

It  was  "  everyday,"  ehe  thought.  "  It  didn't  give  you 
a  feeling  of  sanctity.  It  was  just  as  if  he  was  used  to  the 
Almighty,  and  didn't  mind  I  It  seemed  as  if  he  were 
just  mentioning  things,  in  a  quiet  way,  to  somebody  who 
was  right  at  his  elbow.  For  her  part,  she  liked  a  little 
lifting  up." 

Hazel  Ripwinkley  heard  her,  and  told  Sylvie  and 
Diana  that  "  that  came  of  having  all  your  ideas  of  home 
in  the  seventh  story ;  of  course  you  wanted  an  elevator 
to  go  up  in." 

Desire  Ledwith  looked  what  she  was,  to-day  ;  a  grand, 
pure  woman  ;  a  fit  woman  to  stand  up  beside  a  man  like 
Christopher  Kirkbright,  in  fair  white  garments,  and  say 


EASTER  LILIES.  419 

the  words  that  made  her  his  wife.  There  was  a  beau 
tiful,  sweet  majesty  in  her  giving  of  herself. 

She  did  not  disdain  rich  robes  to-day,  —  she  would  give 
herself  at  her  very  best,  with  all  generous  and  gracious 
outward  sign. 

She  wore  a  dress  of  heavy  silk,  long-trained ;  the  cream- 
white  folds,  unspoiled  by  any  frippery  of  lace,  took,  as 
they  dropped  around  her,  the  shade  and  convolutions  of  a 
lily.  Upon  her  bosom,  and  fastening  her  veil,  were  deep 
green  leaves  that  gave  the  contrast  against  which  a  lily 
rests  itself.  Around  her  throat  were  links  of  frosted  sil 
ver,  from  which  hung  a  pure  plain  silver  cross ;  these 
were  the  gift  of  Hazel.  The  veil,  of  point,  and  rarely 
beautiful,  fell  back  from  her  head,  —  lovely  in  its  shape, 
and  the  simple  wreathing  of  the  dark,  soft  hair,  —  like  a 
drift  of  water  spray ;  not  covering  or  misting  her  all 
over, —  only  lending  a  touch  of  delicate  suggestion  to  the 
pure,  cool,  graceful,  flower-like  unity  of  her  whole  air  and 
apparel. 

"  Desire  is  beautiful !  "  said  Desire  Ripwinkley  to  her 
mother.  "She  never  stopped  to  be  pretty  ! " 

White  calla-lilies,  with  their  tall  stems  and  great  shad 
owy  leaves,  were  in  the  Pompeiian  vases  on  the  mantel ; 
in  the  India  jars  in  the  corners  below  ;  in  a  large  Orien 
tal  china  bowl  that  was  set  upon  the  closed  desk  on  the 
library  table,  wheeled  back  for  the  first  time  that  any 
body  there  had  seen  it  so,  against  the  wall. 

Hazel  had  hung  a  lily-wreath  upon  the  carved  back  of 
Uncle  Titus's  chair,  that  no  one  might  sit  down  in  it,  and 
placed  it  in  the  recess  at  Desire's  left  hand,  as  she  should 
stand  up  to  be  married. 

"  Will  you  two  take  each  other,  to  love  and|  dwell  to 
gether,  and  to  do  God's  work,  as  He  shall  show  and 


420  THE   OTHER  GIRLS. 

help  you,  so  long  as  He  keeps  you  both  in  this  his  world  ? 
Will  you,  Desire  Ledwith,  take  Christopher  Kirkbright 
to  be  your  wedded  husband  ;  will  you,  Christopher  Kirk- 
bright,  take  Desire  Ledwith  to  be  your  wedded  wife  ;  and 
do  you  thereto  mutually  make  your  vows  in  the  sight  of 
God  and  before  this  company?  " 

And  they  answered  together,  "  We  do." 

It  was  a  promise  for  more  than  each  other ;  it  was  a 
life-consecration.  It  was  a  gathering  up  and  renewal  of 
all  that  had  been  holy  in  the  resolves  of  either  while  they 
had  lived  apart ;  a  joining  of  two  souls  in  the  Lord. 

Hilary  Vireo  would  not  have  dared  to  lead  to  perjury, 
by  such  words,  a  common  man  and  woman.  It  was 
enough  for  such  to  ask  if  they  would  take,  and  keep  to, 
each  other. 

Mrs.  Megilp  thought  it  was  "  so  jumbled  !  "  "  If  it 
was  her  daughter,  she  should  not  think  she  was  half 
married." 

Mrs.  Megilp  put  it  more  shrewdly  than  she  had  in 
tended. 

Desire  and  Christopher  Kirkbright  were  very  sure  they 
had  not  been  "  half  married."  It  was  not  the  world's 
half  marriage  that  they  had  stood  up  there  together  for. 


KITCHEN  CRAMBO.  421 

CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

KITCHEN   CKAMBO. 

ELISE  MOKEY  and  Mary  Pinfall  came  in  one 
evening  to  see  Bell  Bree  and  Kate. 

There  had  been  company  to  tea  up-stairs,  and  the 
dishes  were  more  than  usual,  and  the  hour  was  a  little 
later. 

Kate  was  putting  up  the  last  of  the  cooking  utensils, 
and  scalding  down  the  big  tin  dish-pan  and  the  sink.  Bel 
was  up-stairs. 

A  table  with  a  fresh  brown  linen  cloth  upon  it,  two 
white  plates  and  cups,  and  two  white  napkins,  stood  out 
on  the  kitchen  floor  under  the  gas-light.  The  dumb 
waiter  came  rumbling  down,  with  toast  dish,  tea  and 
coffee  pots,  oyster  dish  and  muffin  plate.  Several  slices 
of  cream  toast  were  left,  and  there  was  a  generous  rem 
nant  of  nicely  browned  scalloped  oysters.  The  half  muf 
fins,  buttered  hot,  looked  tender  and  tempting  still. 

Kate  removed  the  dishes,  sent  up  the  waiter,  and  pro 
ducing  some  nice  little  stone-ware  nappies  hot  from  the 
hot  closet,  transferred  the  food  from  the  china  to  these, 
laying  it  neatly  together,  and  replaced  them  in  the  closet, 
to  wait  till  Bel  should  come.  The  tea  and  coffee  she 
poured  into  small  white  pitchers,  also  hot  in  readiness, 
and  set  them  on  the  range  corner.  Then  she  washed  the 
porcelain  and  silver  in  fresh-drawn  scalding  water,  wiped 
and  set  them  safely  on  the  long,  white  sideboard.  There 
they  gleamed  in  the  gas-light,  and  lent  their  beauty  to 
the  brightness  of  the  room,  just  as  much  as  they  would 
have  done  in  actual  using. 


422  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  But  what  a  lot  of  trouble  !  "  said  Elise  Mokey. 

"  Half  a  dozen  dishes  ?  "  returned  Kate.  "  Just  three 
minutes'  work ;  and  a  warm,  fresh  supper  to  make  it 
worth  while.  Besides  rubbing  the  silver  once  in  four 
weeks,  instead  of  every  Friday.  A  Yankee  kitchen  is  a 
labor-saving  institution,  Mrs.  Scherman  says." 

Down  came  the  waiter  again,  and  down  the  stairs  came 
Bel.  Kate  brought  two  more  cups  and  plates  and  nap 
kins. 

"  Now,  girls,  come  and  take  some  tea,"  she  said,  draw 
ing  up  the  chairs. 

Mrs.  Scherman  was  not  strict  about  "kitchen  com 
pany."  She  gave  the  girls  freely  to  understand  that  a 
friend  or  two  happening  in  now  and  then  to  see  them, 
were  as  welcome  to  their  down-stair's  table  as  her  own 
happeners  in  were  to  hers.  "  I  know  it  is  just  the  cosi 
ness  and  the  worth-while  of  home  and  living,"  she  said. 
"  And  I'll  trust  the  c  now  and  then  '  of  it  to  you." 

The  hint  of  reasonable  limit,  and  the  word  of  trust, 
were  better  than  lock  and  law. 

"  How  nice  this  is  !  "  said  Mary  Pinfall,  as  Bel  put  a 
hot  muffin,  mellow  with  sweet  butter,  upon  her  plate. 

"  If  Matilda  Meane  only  knew  which  side  —  and 
where  —  bread  was  buttered  !  She's  living  on  '  relief,' 
yet ;  and  she  buys  cream-cakes  for  dinner,  and  pea-nuts 
for  teaj  But,  Bel,  what  were  you  up-stairs  for?  I 
thought  you  was  queen  o'  the  kitchen !  " 

"  Kate  gives  me  her  chance,  sometimes.  We  change 
about,  to  make  things  even.  The  best  of  it  is  in  the  up 
stairs  work  ;  and  waiting  at  table  is  the  first-best  chance 
of  all.  You  see,  you  '  take  it  in  at  the  pores,'  as  the  man 
says  in  the  play." 

"  Tea  and  oysters?"  said  Elise,  with  an  exclamatory 
interrogation. 


KITCHEN   CRAMBO.  423 

"  You  know  better.  See  here,  Elise.  You  don't  half 
believe  in  this  experiment,  though  you  appreciate  the 
muffins.  But  it  isn't  just  loaves  and  fishes.  There's  a 
living  in  the  world,  and  a  way  to  earn  it,  besides  clothes, 
and  bread  and  butter.  If  you  want  it,  you  can*  choose 
your  work  nearest  to  where  the  living  is.  And  wherever 
else  it  may  or  mayn't  be,  it  is  in  houses,  and  round  tea- 
tables  like  this." 

"  Other  people's  living,  —  for  you  to  look  at  and  wait 
on,"  said  Elise.  "  I  like  to  be  independent." 

"  They  can't  keep  it  back  from  us,  if  they  wanted  to," 
said  Bel.  "  And  you  can't  be  independent ;  there's  no 
such  thing  in  the  world.  It's  all  give  and  take." 

"  How  about  c  other  folks'  dust,'  Kate  ?  Do  you 
remember?" 

"  There's  only  one  place,  I  guess,  after  all,"  said  Kate, 
"  where  you  can  be  shut  up  with  nothing  but  your  own 
dust  !  "  - 

"  Sharper  than  ever,  Kate  Sencerbox  !  I  guess  you  do 
get  rubbed  up !  " 

"  Mr.  Stalworth  is  there  to-night,"  said  Bel.  "He  tells 
as  good  stories  as  he  writes.  And  they've  been  talking 
about  Tyndall's  Essays,  and  the  spectroscope.  Mrs. 
Scherman  asked  questions  that  I  don't  believe  she'd  any 
particular  need  of  answers  to,  herself ;  and  she  stopped 
me  once  when  I  was  going  out  of  the  room  for  something. 
I  knew  by  her  look  that  she  wanted  me  to  hear." 

"  If  they  want  you  to  hear,  why  don't  they  ask  you  to 
sit  down  and  hear  comfortably  ?  "  said  Elise  Mokey,  who 
had  got  her  social  science  —  with  a  little  warp  in  it  — 
from  Boffin's  Bower. 

"  Because  it's  my  place  to  stand,  at  that  time,"  said 
Bel,  stoutly  ;  "  and  I  shouldn't  be  comfortable  out  of  my 


424  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

place.  I  haven't  earned  a  place  like  Mrs.  Scherman's 
yet,  or  married  a  man  that  has  earned  it  for  me.  There 
are  proper  things  for  everybody.  It  isn't  always  proper 
for  Mrs.  Scherman  to  sit  down  herself  ;  or  for  Mr.  Scher- 
man  to  keep  his  hat  on.  It's  the  knowing  what's  proper 
that  sets  people  really  up  ;  it  never  puts  them  down !  " 

"  There's  one  thing,"  said  Kate  Sencerbox.  "  You 
might  be  parlor  people  all  your  days,  and  not  get  into 
everybody's  parlor,  either.  There's  an  up-side  and  a 
down-side,  all  the  way  through,  from  top  to  bottom.  The 
very  best  chance,  for  some  people,  if  they  only  knew  it, 
into  some  houses,  would  be  up  through  the  kitchen." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Bel,  putting  sugar  into  Mary  Pin- 
fall's  second  cup  of  coffee.  "  I've  got  the  notion  of  those 
lines,  Kate,  —  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  —  into  rny  head 
at  last,  I  do  believe.  Red-hot  iron  makes  a  rainbow 
through  a  prism,  like  any  light ;  but  iron-steam  stops  a 
stripe  of  the  color ;  and  every  burning  thing  does  the 
same  way,  —  stops  its  own  color  when  it  shines  through 
its  own  vapor  ;  there  !  Let's  hold  on  to  that,  and  we'll 
go  all  over  it  another  time.  There's  a  piece  about  it  in 
last  month's  Scribner." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  said  Elise  Mokey. 

"  The  way  they've  been  finding  out  what  the  sun  is 
made  of.  By  the  black  lines  across  the  rainbow  colors. 
It's  a  telegraph  ;  they've  just  learned  to  read  it." 

"  But  what  do  you  care  ?  " 

"  I  guess  it's  put  there  as  much  for  me  as  anybody," 
said  Bel.  "  I  don't  think  we  should  ever  pick  up  such 
things,  though,  among  the  basting  threads  at  Fillmer  & 
By  lies'.  They're  lying  round  here,  loose  ;  in  books  and 
talk,  and  everything.  They're  going  to  have  Crambo 
this  evening,  Kate.  After  these  dishes  are  washed,  I 


KITCHEN  CRAMBO.  425 

mean  to  try  my  hand  at  it.  They  were  laughing  about 
one  Mrs.  Scherman  made  last  time  ;  they  couldn't  quite 
remember  it.  I've  got  it.  I  picked  it  up  among  the 
sweepings.  I  shall  take  it  in  to  her  by  and  by." 

Bel  went  to  her  work-basket  as  she  spoke,  and  lifting 
up  some  calico  pieces  that  lay  upon  it,  drew  from  under 
neath  two  or  three  folded  bits  of  paper. 

"  This  is  it,"  she  said,  selecting  one,  and  coming  back 
and  reading. 

(Do  you  see,  let  me  ask  in  a  hurried  parenthesis,  — 
how  the  tone  of  this  household  might  easily  have  been 
a  different  one,  arid  pervaded  differently  its  auxiliary 
department?  How,  in  that  case,  it  might  have  been 
nothing  better  than  a  surreptitious  scrap  of  silk  or  velvet, 
thai:  would  have  ]ain  in  Bel  Bree's  work-basket,  with  a 
story  about  it  of  how,  and  for  what  gayety,  it  had  been 
made  ;  a  scrap  out  of  a  life  that  these  girls  could  only 
gossip  and  wonder  about,  —  not  participate,  and  with 
self -same  human  privilege  and  faculty  delight  in ;  and  yet 
the  only  scrap  that  —  "  out  of  the  sweepings  "  —  they 
could  have  picked  up  ?  There  is  where,  if  you  know  it, 
dear  parlor  people,  the  up-side,  by  just  living,  can  so 
graciously  and  generously  be  always  helping  the  down.) 

Bel  read :  — 

"  4  What  of  that  second  great  fire  that  was  prophesied 
to  come  before  Christmas  ?  '  —  '  Peaches.'  " 

"  You've  got  to  get  that  word  into  the  answer,  you  see  ; 
and  it  hasn't  the  very  least  thing  to  do  with  it !  Now 
see  :  — 

'  A  prophet,  after  the  event, 

No  startling  wisdom  teaches; 
A  second  tire  would  scarce  be  sent 
To  gratify  the  morbid  bent 

That  for  fresh  horror  reaches. 
But,  friend,  do  tell  me  why  you  went 

And  mixed  it  up  with  peaches  !  ' 


426  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

It's  great  fun  !  And  sometimes  it's  lovely,  real  poetry. 
Kate,  you've  got  to  give  me  some  words  and  questions. 
I'm  going  to  take  to  Crambo." 

"  You'll  have  to  mix  it  up  with  dish -washing,"  said 
Elise.  "  Dish- washing  and  dust,  —  you  can't  get  rid  of 
them  !  " 

"  We  do,  though !  "  said  Kate,  alertly,  jumping  up  and 
beginning  to  fetch  the  plates  and  cups  from  the  dumb 
waiter.  "  Here,  Bel  •!  "  And  she  tossed  three  or  four 
long,  soft,  clean  towels  over  to  her  from  the  shelf  beside 
the  china. 

"  And  about  that  dusting,"  she  \7.ent  on,  after  the 
noise  of  the  hot  water  rushing  from  the  taae-et  was  over, 
and  she  began  dropping  the  things  carefully  down 
through  the  cloud  of  steam  into  the  great  pan  full  of 
suds,  and  fishing  them  up  again  with  a  fork  and  a  little 
mop,  —  "  about  the  dusting,  I  didn't  finish.  It's  a  work 
of  art  to  dust  Mrs.  Scherman's  parlor.  Don't  you  think 
there's  a  pleasure  in  handling  and  touching  up  and  setting 
out  all  those  pretty  things  ?  Don't  they  get  to  be  a  part 
of  our  having,  too?  Don't  I  take  as  much  comfort  in 
her  fernery  as  she  does  ?  I  know  every  little  green  and 
woolly  loop  that  comes  up  in  it.  It's  the  only  sense 
there  is  in  things.  There's  a  picture  there,  of  cows  com 
ing  home,  down  a  green  lane,  and  the  sun  striking 
through,  and  lighting  up  the  gravel,  and  a  patch  of  green 
grass,  and  the  red  hair  on  the  cows'  necks.  You  think 
you  just  catch  it  coming,  suddenly,  through  the  trees, 
when  you  first  look  up  at  it.  And  you  go  right  into  a 
little  piece  of  the  country,  and  stand  there.  Mr.  Scher- 
man  doesn't  own  that  lane,  or  those  cows,  though  he 
bought  the  picture.  All  he  owiis  is  what  he  gets  by  the 
signs ;  and  I  get  that,  every  day,  for  the  dusting  !  There 


KITCHEN   CRAMBO.  427 

are  things  to  be  earned  and  shared  where  people   live, 
that  you  can't  earn  in  the  sewing-shops." 

"  That's  what  Bel  said.  Well,  I'm  glad  you  like  it. 
Sha'n't  I  wipe  up  some  of  those  cups  ?  " 

"  They're  all  done  now,"  said  Bel,  piling  them  together. 

In  fifteen  minutes  after  their  own  tea  was  ended,  the 
kitchen  was  in  order  again  ;  the  dumb-waiter,  with  its 
freight,  sent  up  to  the  china  closet ;  the  brown  linen  cloth 
and  the  napkins  folded  away  in  the  drawer,  and  the  white- 
topped  table  ready  for  evening  use.  Bel  Bree  had  not 
been  brought  up  in  a  New  England  farm-house,  and  seen 
her  capable  stepmother  "  whew  round,"  to  be  hard  put 
to  it,  now,  over  half  a  dozen  cups  and  tumblers  more  or 
less. 

"  We  must  go,"  said  Elise  Mokey.  "  I've  got  the  but 
tons  to  sew  on  to  those  last  night-gowns  of  Miss  Led- 
with's.  I  want  to  carry  them  back  to-morrow." 

"  You're  lucky  to  sew  for  her,"  said  Bel.  "  But  you 
see  we  all  have  to  do  for  somebody,  and  I'd  as  lief  it  would 
be  teacups,  for  my  part,  as  buttons." 

Bel  Bree's  old  tricks  of  rhyming  were  running  in  her 
head.  This  game  of  Crambo  —  a  favorite  one  with  the 
Schermans  and  their  bright  little  intimate  circle  —  stirred 
up  her  wits  with  a  challenge.  And  under  the  wits,  — 
under  the  quick  mechanic  action  of  the  serving  brain,  - 
thoughts  had  been  daily  crowding  and  growing,  for  which 
these  mere  mental  facilities  were  waiting,  the  ready  instru 
ments. 

I  have  said  that  Bel  Bree  was  a  born  reformer  and  a 
born  poet ;  and  that  the  two  things  go  together.  To  see 
freshly  and  clearly,  —  to  discern  new  meaning  in  old  liv 
ing,  —  living  as  old  as  the  world  is  ;  to  find  by  instinct 
new  and  better  ways  of  doing,  the  finding  of  which  is  often 


428  THE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

only  returning  to  the  heart  and  simplicity  of  the  old  living 
before  it  was  old  with  social  circumventions  and  needed  to 
be  fresh  interpreted  ;  these  are  the  very  heavenly  gift  and 
office  of  illumination  and  leadership.  Just  as  she  had  been 
made,  laid  just  where  she  had  been  put,  —  a  girl  with  the 
questions  of  woman-life  before  her  in  these  days  of  rest 
less  asking  and  uncertain  reply,  —  with  her  lot  cast  here, 
in  this  very  crowding,  fermenting,  aspiring,  great  New 
England  metropolis,  in  the  hour  of  its  most  changeful  and 
involved  experience, —  she  brought  the  divine  talisman  of 
her  nature  to  bear  upon  the  nearest,  most  practical  point 
of  the  wide  tangle  with  which  it  came  in  contact.  And 
around  her  in  this  right  place  that  she  had  found  and 
taken,  gathered  and  wrought  already,  by  effluence  and 
influence,  forces  and  results  that  gather  and  work  about 
any  nucleus  of  life,  however  deep  hidden  it  may  be  in 
a  surrounding  deadness.  All  things,  —  creation  itself,  — 
as  Asenath  had  said,  must  begin  in  spots ;  and  she  and 
Bel  Bree  had  begun  a  fair  new  spot,  in  which  was  a  vital 
ity  that  tends  to  organic  completeness,  to  full  establish 
ment,  and  triumphant  growth. 

Upon  Bel  herself  reflected  quickly  and  surely  the  benefi 
cent  action  of  this  life.  She  was  taking  in  truly,  at  every 
pore.  How  long  would  it  have  been  before,  out  of  the 
hard  coarse  limits  in  which  her  one  line  of  labor  and  asso 
ciation  had  first  placed  her,  she  would  have  come  up  into 
such  an  atmosphere  as  was  here,  ready  made  for  her  to 
breathe  and  abide  in  ?  To  help  make  also  ;  to  stand  at 
its  practical  mainspring,  and  keep  it  possible  that  it  should 
move  on. 

The  talk,  the  ideas  of  the  day,  were  in  her  ears  ;  the 
books,  the  periodicals  of  the  day  were  at  hand,  and  free 
for  -her  to  avail  herself  of.  The  very  fun  at  Mrs.  Scher- 


KITCHEN   CRAMBO.  429 

man's  tea-table  was  the  sort  of  fun  that  can  only  sparkle 
out  of  culture.  There  was  a  grace  that  her  aptness  caught, 
and  that  was  making  a  lady  of  her. 

"  111  give  in,"  said  Elise  Mokey,  "  that  you're  getting 
style  ;  though  I  can't  tell  how  it  is  either.  It  ain't  in 
your  calico  dresses,  nor  the  doing  up  of  your  hair." 

Perhaps  it  was  a  good  deal  in  the  very  simplifying  of 
these  from  the  exaggerated  imitations  of  the  shop  and 
street,  as  well  as  in  the  tone  of  all  the  rest  with  which 
these  inevitably  fell  into  harmony. 

But  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Bel's  kitchen  Crambo.  I 
want  to  show  you  how  what  is  in  a  woman,  in  heart  and 
mind,  springs  up  and  shows  itself,  and  may  grow  to  what 
ever  is  meant  for  it,  out  of  the  quietest  background  of 
homely  use. 

She  brought  out  pencil  and  paper,  and  made  Kate 
write  question  slips  and  detached  words. 

"  I  feel  just  tingling  to  try,"  she  said.  "  There's  a  kind 
of  dancing  in  my  head,  of  things  that  have  been  there 
ever  so  long.  I  believe  I  shall  make  a  poem  to-night.  It's 
catching,  when  you're  predisposed ;  and  it's  partly  the 
spring  weather,  and  the  sap  coming  up.  '  Put  a  name  to 
it,'  Katie !  Almost  anything  will  set  me  off." 

K^e  wrote,  on  half  a  dozen  scraps  ;  then  tossed  them 
up,  and  pushed  them  over  for  Bel  to  draw. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  city  in  the  spring  ?  "  was  the 
question ;  and  the  word,  suggested  by  Kate's  work  at  the 
moment,  was, —  "  Hem." 

Bel  put  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and  her  hands  up 
against  her  ears.  Her  eyes  shone,  as  they  rested  intent 
upon  the  two  penciled  bits.  The  link  between  them  sug 
gested  itself  quickly  and  faintly  ;  she  was  grasping  at  an 
elusive  something  with  all  the  fine  little  quivering  brain- 
tentacles  that  lay  hold  of  spiritual  apprehension. 


430  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  parlor  bell  rang. 

"  I'll  go,"  she  said.  "  You  keep  to  your  sewing.  It's 
for  the  nursery,  I  guess,  and  I'll  do  my  poem  up  there." 

She  caught  up  pencil  and  paper,  and  the  other  fragment 
also,  —  Mrs.  Scherman's  own  rhyme  about  the  "  peaches." 

Mrs.  Scherman  met  her  at  the  parlor  door. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  you,"  she  said  ;  "  but  the  baby 
is  stirring.  Could  you,  or  Kate,  go  up  and  try  to  hush 
her  off  again  ?  If  I  go,  she'll  keep  me." 

"  I  will,"  said  Bel.  "  Hera  is  that  '  Crambo  '  you 
were  talking  of  #t  tea,  Mrs.  Schennan.  I  kept  it.  Kate 
picked  it  up  with  the  scraps." 

"  O,  thank  you  !     Why,  Bel,  how  your  face  shines  !  " 

Bel  hurried  off,  for  Baby  Karen  "  stirred  "  more  em 
phatically  at  this  moment.  Asenath  went  back  into  the 
parlor. 

"  Here  is  that  rhyme  of  mine,  Frank,  that  you  were 
asking  for.  Bel  found  it  in  the  dust- pan.  I  believe  she's 
writing  rhymes  herself.  She  tries  out  every  idea  she 
picks  up  among  us.  She  had  a  pencil  in  her  hand,  and 
her  face  was  brimful  of  something.  Mr.  Stalworth,  if  / 
find  anything  in  the  dust-pan,  I  shall  turn  it  over  to  you. 
*  First  and  Last '  is  bound  to  act  up  to  its  title,  and  trans 
pose  itself  freely,  according  to  Scripture." 

"  '  First  and  Last '  will  receive,  under  either  head, 
whatever  you  will  indorse,  Mrs.  Scherman,  —  and  the 
last  not  least,"  —  returned  the  benign  and  brilliant  editor. 

Bel  had  a  knack  with  a  baby.  She  knew  enough  to 
understand  that  small  human  beings  have  a  good  many 
feelings  and  experiences  precisely  like  those  of  large  ones. 
She  knew  that  if  she  woke  up  in  the  night,  she  should 
not  be  likely  to  fall  asleep  again  if  pulled  up  out  of  her 
bed  into  the  cold  ;  nor  if  she  were  very  much  patted  and 


KITCHEN  CRAMBO.  431 

talked  to.  So  she  just  took  gently  hold  of  the  upper 
edge  of  the  small,  fine  blanket  in  which  Baby  Karen  was 
wrapped,  and  by  it  drew  her  quietly  over  upon  her  other 
side.  The  little  limbs  fell  into  a  new  place  and  sensation 
of  rest,  as  larger  limbs  do  ;  little  Karen  put  off  waking 
up  and  crying  for  one  delicious  instant,  as  anybody 
would ;  and  in  that  instant  sleep  laid  hold  of  her  again. 
She  was  safe,  now,  for  another  hour  or  two,  at  least. 

Mrs.  Scherman  said  she  had  really  never  had  so  little 
trouble  with  a  baby  as  with  this  one,  who  had  nobody 
especially  appointed  to  make  out  her  own  necessity  by 
constant  "  tending," 

Bel  did  not  go  down-stairs  again.  She  could  do  better 
here  than  with  Kate  sitting  opposite,  aware  of  all  her 
scratches  and  poetical  predicaments. 

An  hour  went  by.  Bel  was  hardly  equal  yet  to  five- 
minute  Crambo ;  and  besides,  she  was  doing  her  best ; 
trying  to  put  something  clearly  into  syllables  that  said 
itself,  unsyllabled,  to  her. 

She  did  not  hear  Mrs.  Scherman  when  she  came  up 
the  stairs.  She  had  just  read  over  to  herself  the  five 
completed  stanzas  of  her  poem. 

It  had  really  come.  It  was  as  if  a  violet  had  been 
born  to  actual  bloom  from  the  thought,  the  intangible 
vision  of  one.  She  wondered  at  the  phrasing,  marveling 
how  those  particular  words  had  come  and  ranged  them 
selves  at  her  call.  She  did  not  know  how  she  had  done 
it,  or  whether  she  herself  had  done  it  at  all.  She  began 
almost  to  think  she  must  have  read  it  before  somewhere. 
Had  she  just  picked  it  up  out  of  her  memory  ?  Was  it 
a  borrowing,  a  mimicry,  a  patchwork  ? 

But  it  was  very  pretty,  very  sweet !  It  told  her  own 
feelings  over  to  her,  with  more  that  she  had  not  known 


432  THE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

she  had  felt  or  perceived.  She  read  it  again  from  begin 
ning  to  end  in  a  whisper.  Her  mouth  was  bright  with  a 
smile  and  her  eyes  with  tears  when  she  had  ended. 

Asenath  Scherman  with  her  light  step  came  in  and 
stood  beside  her. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  ?  "  the  sweet,  gracious  voice  de 
manded. 

Bel  Bree  looked  up. 

"  I  thought  I'd  try,  in  fun,"  she  said,  "  and  it  came  In 
real  earnest." 

Asenath  forgot  that  the  face  turned  up  to  hers,  with 
the  smile  and  the  tears  and  the  color  in  it,  was  the  face 
of  her  hired  servant.  A  lovely  soul,  all  alight  with 
thought  and  gladness,  met  her  through  it. 

She  bent  down  and  touched  Bel's  forehead  with  her 
lady-lips. 

Bel  put  the  little  scribbled  paper  in  her  hand,  and  ran 
away,  up-stairs. 

"  Will  you  give  it  to  me,  Bel,  and  let  me  do  what  I 
please  with  it  ?  "  —  Mrs.  Scherman  went  to  Bel  and 
asked  next  day. 

Bel  blushed.  She  had  been  a  little  frightened  in  the 
morning  to  think  of  what  had  happened  over  night.  She 
could  not  quite  recollect  all  the  words  of  her  verses,  and 
she  wondered  if  they  were  really  as  pretty  as  she  had 
fancied  in  the  moment  of  making  them. 

All  she  could  answer  was  that  Mrs.  Scherman  was 
"  very  kind." 

"  Then  you'll  trust  me  ?  " 

And  Bel,  wondering  very  much,  but  too  shy  to  question, 
said  she  would. 

A  few  days  after  that,  Asenath  called  her  up-stairs. 
The  postman  had  rung  five  minutes  before,  and  Kate  had 
carried  up  a  note. 


.<  IX  CAME  _  IN    EAKNKST  ! 


KITCHEN   CRAMBO.  433 

"  We  were  just  in  time  with  our  little  spring  song," 
she  said.  "  jS/webirds  have  to  sing  early  ;  at  least  a 
month  beforehand.  See  here  !  Is  this  all  right  ?  "  and 
she  put  into  Bel's  hand  a  little  roughish  slip  of  paper, 
upon  which  was  printed  :  — 

"THE  CITY  IN   SPRING. 

"  It  is  not  much  that  makes  me  glad: 
I  hold  more  than  I  ever  had. 
The  empty  hand  may  farther  reach, 
And  small,  sweet  signs  all  beauty  teach. 

"  I  like  the  city  in  the  spring, 
It  has  a  hint  of  everything. 
Down  in  the  yard  I  like  to  see 
The  budding  of  that  single  tree. 

"  The  little  sparrows  on  the  shed  ; 
The  scrap  of  soft  sky  overhead ; 
The  cat  upon  the  sunny  wall ; 
There's  so  much  meant  among  them  all. 

"  The  dandelion  in  the  cleft 
A  broken  pavement  may  have  left, 
Is  like  the  star  that,  still  and  sweet, 
Shines  where  the  house-tops  almost  meet. 

"  I  like  a  little;  all  the  rest 
Is  somewhere ;  and  our  Lord  knows  best 
How  the  whole  robe  hath  grace  for  them 
Who  only  touch  the  garment's  hjem." 

At  the  bottom,  in  small  capitals,  was  the  signature,  — 
BEL  BKEE. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Bel,  bewildered.  "  What 
is  it?  Who  did  it?" 

"  It  is  a  proof,"  said  Mrs.  Scherman.  "  A  proof-sheet. 
And  here  is  another  kind  of  proof  that  came  with  it. 
Your  spring  song  is  going  into  the  May  number  of  '  First 
and  Last.'  " 

Mrs.  Scherman  reached  out  a  slip  of  paper,  printed  and 
filled  in. 


434  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

It  was  a  publisher's  check  for  fifteen  dollars. 

"  You  see  I'm  very  unselfish,  Bel,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
going  to  work  the  very  way  to  lose  you." 

Bel's  eyes  flashed  up  wide  at  her. 

The  way  to  lose  her !  Why,  nobody  had  ever  got 
such  a  hold  upon  her  before  !  The  printed  verses  and 
the  money  were  wonderful  surprises,  but  they  were  not 
the  surprise  that  had  gone  straight  into  her  heart,  and 
dropped  a  grapple  there.  Mrs.  Scherman  had  believed 
in  her  ;  and  she  had  kissed  her.  Bel  Bree  would  never 
forget  that,  though  she  should  live  to  sing  songs  of  all  the 
years. 

"  When  you  can  earn  money  like  this,  of  course  I  can 
not  expect  to  keep  you  in  my  kitchen,"  said  Mrs.  Scher 
man,  answering  her  look. 

"  I  might  never  do  it  again  in  all  my  life,"  sensible 
Bel  replied.  "  And  I  hope  you'll  keep  me  somewhere. 
It  wouldn't  be  any  reason,  I  think,  because  one  little 
green  leaf  has  budded  out,  for  a  plant  to  say  that  it 
would  not  be  kept  growing  in  the  ground  any  longer.  I 
couldn't  go  and  set  up  a  poem-factory,  without  a  home 
and  a  living  for  the  poems  to  grow  up  out  of.  I'm 
pleased  I  can  write  !  "  she  exclaimed,  brimming  up  suddenly 
with  the  pleasure  she  had  but  half  stopped  to  realize. 
"  I  thought  I  could.  But  I  know  very  well  that  the  best 
and  brightest  things  I've  ever  thought  have  come  into  my 
head  over  the  ironing-board  or  the  bread-making.  Even 
at  home.  And  here,  —  why,  Mrs.  Scherman,  it's  living 
in  a  poem  here  !  And  if  you  can  be  in  the  very  founda 
tion  part  of  such  living,  you're  in  the  realest  place  of  all, 
I  think.  I  don't  believe  poetry  can  be  skimmed  off  the 
top,  till  it  has  risen  up  from  the  bottom  !  " 

"  But  you  ought  to  come  into  my  parlor,  among  my 


KITCHEN  CRAMBO.  435 

friends  I  People  would  be  glad  to  get  you  into  their  par 
lors,  by  and  by,  when  you  have  made  the  name  you  can 
make.  I've  no  business  to  keep  you  down.  And  you 
don't  know  yourself.  You  won't  stay." 

"  Just  please  wait  and  see,"  said  Bel.  "I  haven't  a 
great  deal  of  experience  in  going  about  in  parlors  ;  but 
I  don't  think  I  should  much  like  it,  —  that  way.  I'd 
rather  keep  on  being  the  woman  that  made  the  name, 
than  to  run  round  airing  it.  I  guess  it  would  keep 
better." 

"  I  see  I  can't  advise  you.  I  shouldn't  dare  to  meddle 
with  inspirations.  But  I'm  proud,  and  glad,  Bel ;  and 
you're  my  friend !  The  rest  will  all  work  out  right, 
somehow." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Mrs.  Scherman,"  said  Bel,  her  voice 
full  of  feeling.  "And  —  if  you  please  —  will  you  have 
the  grouse  broiled  to-day,  or  roasted  with  bread-sauce  ?  " 

At  that,  the  two  young  women  laughed  out,  in  each 
other's  faces. 

Bel  stopped  first. 

"  It  isn't  half  so  funny  as  it  sounds,"  she  said.  "  It's 
part  of  the  poetry  ;  the  rhyme's  inside  ;  it  is  to  every 
thing.  We're  human  people  :  that's  the  way  we  get  it." 

And  Bel  went  away,  and  stuffed  the  grouse,  and  grated 
her  bread-crumbs,  and  sang  over  her  work,  —  not  out 
loud  with  her  lips,  but  over  and  over  to  a  merry  measure 
in  her  mind,  — 

"Everything  comes  to  its  luck  some  day: 
I've  got  chickens !    What  will  folks  say  V  " 

"  I'm  solving  more  than  I  set  out  to  do,"  Sin  Scherman 
said  to  her  husband.  "  Westover  was  nothing  to  it.  I 
know  one  thing,  though,  that  I'll  do  next." 


436  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  One  thing  is  reasonable,"  said  Frank.  "  What  is 
it?" 

"  Take  her  to  York  with  us,  this  summer.  Row  out 
on  the  river  with  her.  Sit  on  the  rocks,  and  read  and 
sew,  and  play  with  the  children.  Show  her  the  ocean. 
She  never  ^aw  it  in  all  her  life." 

"  How  wonderful  is  4  one  thing '  in  the  mind  of  a 
woman  !  It  is  a  germ-cell,  that  holds  all  things." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear.  If  I  weren't  helping  you  to 
soup,  I'd  get  up  and  make  you  a  courtesy.  But  what  a 
grand  privilege  it  is  for  a  man  to  live  with  a  woman,  after 
he  has  found  that  out !  And  how  cosmical  a  woman  feels 
herself  when  her  capacity  is  recognized !  " 

Mrs.  Scherman  has  told  her  plan  to  Bel.  Kate  also 
has  a  plan  for  the  two  summer  months  in  which  the 
household  must  be  broken  up. 

"  I  mean  to  see  the  mountains  myself ,"  she  said,  boldly. 
"  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  go  to  the  country.  There 
are  homes  there  that  want  help,  as  well  as  here.  I  can 
get  my  living  where  the  living  goes.  That's  just  where 
it  fays  in,  different  from  other  work.  Bel  knows  places 
where  I  could  get  two  dollars  a  week  just  for  a  little 
helping  round  ;  or  I  could  even  afford  to  pay  board,  and 
buy  a  little  time  for  resting.  I  shall  have  clothes  to 
make,  and  fix  over.  It  always  took  all  I  could  earn,  be 
fore,  to  keep  me  from  hand  to  mouth.  I  never^saw  six 
months'  wages  all  together,  in  my  life.  I  feel  real  rich." 

"  I  will  pay  you  half  wages  for  the  two  months,"  said 
Mrs.  Scherman,  "if  you  will  come  back  to  me  in  Sep 
tember.  And  next  year,  if  we  all  keep  together,  it  will 
be  your  turn,  if  you  like,  to  go  with  me." 

Kate  feels  the  spring  in  her  heart,  knowing  that  she  is 
to  have  a  piece  of  the  summer.  The  horse-chestnut  tree 


KITCHEN  CRAMBO.  437 

in  the  yard  is  not  a  mockery  to  her.  She  has  a  prop 
erty  in  every  promise  that  its  great  brown,  buds  are 
making. 

"The  pleasant  weather  used  to  be  like  the  spring- 
suits,"  she  said.  "  Something  making  up  for  other  peo 
ple.  Nothing  to  me,  except  more  work,  with  a  little 
difference.  Now,  somewhere,  the  hills  are  getting  green 
for  me  !  I'm  one  of  the  meek,  that  inherit  the  earth  ! " 

"  You  are  earning  a  whole  living,"  Bel  said,  reverting 
to  "her  favorite  and  comprehensive  conclusion. 

"  And  yet, —  somebody  has  got  to  run  machines,"  said 
Kate. 

"  But  all  the  bodies  haven't.  That  is  the  mistake  we 
have  been  making.  That  keeps  the  pay  low,  and  makes 
it  horrid.  There's  a  little  more  room  now,  where  you 
and  I  were.  Anyhow,  we  Yankee  girls  have  a  right  to 
our  turn  at  the  home-wheels.  If  we  had  been  as  cute 
as  we  thought  we  were,  we  should  have  found  it  out 
before." 

Bel  Bree  has  written  half  a  dozen  little  poems  at  odd 
times,  since  the  rhyme  that  began  her  fortune.  Mr.  Stal- 
worth  says  they  are  stamped  with  her  own  name,  every 
one  ;  breezy,  and  freshly  delicious.  For  that  very  reason, 
of  course,  people  will  not  believe,  when  they  see  the  name 
in  print,  that  it  is  a  real  name.  It  is  so  much  easier  to 
believe  in  little  tricks  of  invention,  than  in  things  that 
simply  come  to  pass  by  a  wonderful,  beautiful  determina 
tion,  because  they  belong  so.  They  think  the  poem  is 
a  trick  of  invention,  too.  They  think  that  of  almost 
everything  that  they  see  in  print.  Their  incredulity  is 
marvelously  credulous  !  There  is  no  end  to  that  which 
mortals  may  contrive  ;  but  the  limit  is  such  a  measurable 
one  to  th^t  which  can  really  be !  We  slip  our  human 


438  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

leash  so  easily,  and  get  outside  of  all  creation,  and  the 
"  Divinity  that  shapes  our  ends,"  to  shape  and  to  create, 
ourselves ! 

For  my  part,  the  more  stories  I  write  out,  the  more  I 
learn  how,  even  in  fiction,  things  happen  and  take  relation 
according  to  some  hidden  reality ;  that  we  have  only  to 
stand  by,  and  see  the  shiftings  and  combinings,  and  with 
what  care  and  honesty  we  may,  to  put  them  down. 

If  there  is  anything  in  this  story  that  you  cannot  credit, 
—  if  you  cannot  believe  in  such  a  relation,  and  such  a 
friendship,  and  such  a  mutual  service,  as  Asenath  Scher- 
man's  and  Bel  Bree's,  —  if  you  cannot  believe  that  Bel 
Bree  may  at  this  moment  be  ironing  Mrs.  Scher man's 
damask  table-cloths,  and  as  the  ivy  leaf  or  morning-glory 
pattern  comes  out  under  the  polish,  some  beautiful  thought 
in  her  takes  line  and  shade  under  the  very  rub  of  labor, 
and  shows  itself  as  it  would  have  done  no  other  way,  and 
that  by  and  by  it  will  shine  on  a  printed  page,  made  sub 
stantive  in  words,  —  then,  perhaps,  you  have  only  not 
lived  quite  long  —  or  deep  —  enough.  There  is  a  more 
real  and  perfect  architecture  than  any  that  has  ever  got 
worked  out  in  stone,  or  even  sketched  on  pfeper. 

Neither  Boston,  nor  the  world,  is  "  finished "  yet. 
There  may  be  many  a  burning  and  rebuilding,  first. 
Meanwhile,  we  will  tell  what  we  can  see. 

And  that  word  sends  me  back  to  Bel  herself,  of  whom 
this  present  seeing  and  telling  can  read  and  recite  no 
further. 

Are  you  dissatisfied  to  leave  her  here  ?  Is  it  a  pity, 
you  think,  that  the  little  glimmer  of  romance  in  Leicester 
Place  meant  nothing,  after  all  ?  There  are  blind  turns 
in  the  labyrinth  of  life.  Would  you  have  our  Bel  lost  in 
a  blind  turn  7 


KITCHEN   CRAMBO. 

The  right  and  the  wrong  settled  it,  as  they  settle  all 
things.  The  right  and  the  wrong  are  the  reins  with 
which  we  are  guided  into  the  very  best,  sooner  or  later  ; 
yes,  — sooner  and  later.  If  we  will  go  God's  way,  we 
shall  have  manifold  more  in  this  present  world,  and  in 
the  world  to  come  life  everlasting. 


440  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

WHAT   NOBODY   COULD   HELP. 

MR.  and  Mrs.  Kirkbright  went  away  to  New  York 
on  the  afternoon  of  their  marriage. 

Miss  Euphrasia  went  up  to  Brickfields.  Sylvie  Argen- 
ter  was  to  follow  her  on  Thursday.  It  had  been  settled 
that  she  should  remain  with  Desire,  who,  with  her  hus 
band,  would  reach  home  on  Saturday. 

It  was  a  sweet,  pleasant  spring  day,  when  Sylvie 
Argenter,  with  some  last  boxes  and  packages,  took  the 
northward  train  for  Tilling  ton. 

She  was  going  to  a  life  of  use  and  service.  She  was 
going  into  a  home ;  a  home  that  not  only  made  a  fitting 
place  for  her  in  it,  and  was  perfect  in  itself,  but  that, 
with  noble  plan  and  enlargement,  found  way  to  reach  its 
safety  and  benediction,  and  the  contagion  of  its  spirit, 
over  souls  that  would  turn  toward  it,  come  under  its  rule, 
and  receive  from  it,  as  their  only  shelter  and  salvation  ; 
over  a  neighborhood  that  was  to  be  a  planting  of  Hope, 
—  a  heavenly  feudality. 

Sylvie 's  own  dreams  of  a  possible  future  for  herself 
were  only  purple  lights  upon  a  far  horizon. 

It  seemed  a  very  great  way  off,  any  bringing  to  speech 
and  result  the  mute,  infrequent  signs  of  what  was  yet  the 
very  real,  secret  strength  and  joy  and  hope  of  her  girl's 
heart. 

She  had  a  thought  of  Rodney  Sherrett  that  she  was 
sure  she  had  a  right  to.  That  was  all  she  wanted,  yet. 
Of  course,  Rodney  was  not  ready  to  marry ;  he  was  too 


WHAT   NOBODY   COULD    HELP.  441 

young ;  he  was  not  much  older  than  she  was,  and  that 
was  very  young  for  a  man.  She  did  not  even  think  about 
it ;  she  recognized  the  whole  position  without  thinking. 

She  remembered  vividly  the  little  way-station  in  Mid 
dlesex,  where  he  had  bought  the  ferns,  that  day  in  last 
October ;  she  thought  of  him  as  the  train  ran  slowly 
alongside  the  platform  at  East  Keaton.  She  wondered 
if  he  would  not  sometimes  come  up  for  a  Sunday ;  to 
spend  it  with  his  uncle  and  his  Aunt  Euphrasia.  It  was 
a  secret  gladness  to  her  that  she  was  to  be  where  he 
partly,  and  very  affectionately,  belonged.  She  was  sure 
she  should  see  him,  now  and  then.  Her  life  looked 
pleasant  to  her,  its  current  setting  alongside  one  current, 
certainly,  of  his. 

She  sat  thinking  how  he  had  come  up  behind  her  that 
day  in  the  drawing-room  car,  and  of  all  the  happy  non 
sense  they  had  begun  to  talk,  in  such  a  hurry,  together. 
She  was  lost  in  the  imagination  of  that  old  surprise,  liv 
ing  it  over  again,  remembering  how  it  had  seemed  when 
she  suddenly  knew  that  it  was  he  who  touched  her  shoul 
der.  Her  thought  of  him  was  a  backward  thought,  with 
a  sense  in  it  of  his  presence  just  behind  her  again,  per 
haps,  if  she  should  turn  her  head,  —  which  she  would  not 
do,  for  all  the  world,  to  break  the  spell,  —  when  sudden 
ly,  —  face  to  face,  —  through  the  car-window,  she  awoke 
to  his  eyes  and  smile. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  she  asked,  as  he  came  in  and 
took  the  seat  beside  her*  Then  she  blushed  to  think 
what  she  had  taken  for  granted. 

"  I  didn't,"  he  answered  ;  "  except  as  a  Yankee  always 
knows  things,  and  a  cat  comes  down  upon  her  feet.  I 
am  taking  a  week's  holiday,  and  I  began  it  two  days 
sooner,  that  I  might  run  up  to  see  Aunt  Effie  before  I  go 


442  THE   OTHER   GIBLS. 

down  to  Boston  to  meet  my  father.  The  steamer  will  be 
due  by  Saturday.  It  is  my  first  holiday  since  I  went  to 
Arlesbury.  I'm  turning  into  a  regular  old  Gradgrind, 
Miss  Sylvie." 

Sylvie  smiled  at  him,  as  if  a  regular  old  Gradgrind 
were  just  the  most  beautiful  and  praiseworthy  creature 
a  bright,  hearty  young  fellow  could  turn  into. 

"  You'd  better  not  encourage  me,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  head.  "  It  would  be  a  dreadful  thing  if  I  should  get 
sordid,  you  know.  I'm  not  apt  to  stop  half  way  in  any 
thing  ;  and  I'm  awfully  in  earnest  now  about  saving  up 
money." 

He  had  to  stop  there.  He  was  coming  close  to  motives, 
and  these  he  could  say  nothing  about. 

But  a  sudden  stop,  in  speech  as  in  music,  is  sometimes 
more  significant  than  any  stricken  note. 

Sylvie  did  not  speak  at  once,  either.  She  was  thinking 
what  different  reasons  there  might  be,  for  spending  or 
saving ;  how  there  might  be  hardest  self-denial  in  most 
unca'lculating  extravagance. 

When  she  found  that  they  were  growing  awkwardly 
quiet,  she  said,  —  "I  suppose  the  right  thing  is  to  remem 
ber  that  there  is  neither  virtue  nor  blame  in  just  saving 
or  not  saving." 

"  My  father  lost  a  good  deal  by  the  fire,"  said  Rodney. 
"More  than  he  thought,  at  first.  He  is  coming  home 
sooner,  in  consequence.  I'm  very  glad  I  did  not  go  abroad. 
I  should  have  been  just  whirled  out  of  everything,  if  I 
had.  As  it  is,  I'm  in  a  place  ;  I've  got  a  lever  planted. 
It's  no  time  now  for  a  fellow  to  look  round  for  a  foothold." 

"  You  like  Arlesbury  ?  "  asked  Sylvie.  "  I  think  it 
must  be  a  lovely  place." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Rodney,  taken  by  surprise. 


WHAT  NOBODY  COULD  HELP.  443 

"  From  the  piece  of  it  you  sent  me  in  the  winter." 

"  Oh  !  those  ferns  ?  I'm  glad  you  liked  them.  There's 
something  nice  and  plucky  about  those  little  things,  isn't 
there  ?  " 

It  was  every  word  he  could  think  of  to  reply.  He  had 
a  provoked  perception  that  was  not  altogether  nice  and 
plucky,  of  himself,  just  then.  But  that  was  because  the 
snow  was  still  unlifted  from  him.  He  was  under  a  bur 
den  of  coldness  and  constraint.  Somebody  ought  to  come 
and  take  it  away.  It  was  time.  The  spring,  that  would 
not  be  kept  back,  was  here. 

He  had  not  said  a  word  to  Sylvie  about  her  mother. 
How  could  he  speak  of  what  had  left  her  alone  in  the 
world,  and  not  say  that  he  wanted  to  make  a  new  world 
for  her  ?  That  he  had  longed  for  it  through  all  her  trou 
bles,  and  that  this,  and  nothing  else,  was  what  he  was 
keeping  his  probation  for  ? 

So  they  came  to  Tillington  at  last,  and  there  had  been 
between  them  only  little  drifting  talk  of  the  moment, 
that  told  nothing. 

After  all,  do  we  not,  for  a  great  part,  drift  through  life 
so,  giving  each  other  crumbs  off  the  loaf  that  will  only 
seem  to  break  in  that  paltry  way?  And  by  and  by, 
when  the  journey  is  over,  do  we  not  wonder  that  we 
could  not  have  given  better  and  more  at  a  time  ?  Yet 
the  crumbs  have  the  leaven  and  the  sweetness  of  the  loaf 
in  them  ;  the  commonest  little  wayside  things  are  charged 
full  of  whatever  is  really  within  us.  God's  own  love  is 
broken  small  for  us.  "  This  is  my  Body,  broken  for 
you." 

If  life  were  nothing  but  what  gets  phrased  and  sub- 
stanced,  the  world  might  as  well  be  rolled  up  and  laid 
away  again  in  darkness. 


444  *  THE  OTHER   GIRLS. 

Sylvie  had  a  handful  of  checks  ;  Rodney  took  them 
from  her,  and  went  out  to  the  end  of  the  platform  to  find 
the  boxes.  Two  vehicles  had  been  driven  over  from  Hill- 
hope  to  meet  her  ;  an  open  spring- wagon  for  the  luggage, 
and  a  chaise-top  buggy  to  convey  herself. 

Trunks,  boxes,  and  the  great  padlocked  basket  were 
speedily  piled  upon  the  wagon ;  then  the  two  men  who 
had  come  jumped  up  together  to  the  front  seat  of  the 
same,  and  Sylvie  saw  that  it  was  left  for  her  and  Rodney 
to  proceed  together  for  the  seven-mile  drive. 

Rodney  came  back  to  her  with  an  alert  and  felicitous  air. 
How  could  he  help  the  falling  out  of  this  ?  Of  course  he 
could  not  ride  upon  the  wagon  and  leave  a  farm-boy  to 
charioteer  Sylvie. 

"  Shall  you  be  afraid  of  me  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  tossed 
in  his  valise  for  a  footstool,  and  carefully  bestowed  Sylvie's 
shawl  against  the  back,  to  cushion  her  more  comfortably. 
"  Do  you  suppose  we  can  manage  to  get  over  there  with 
out  running  down  a  bake-shop  ?  " 

"  Or  a  cider-mill,"  said  Sylvie,  laughing.  "  You  will 
have  to  adapt  your  exploits  to  circumstances." 

Up  and  down,  through  that  beautiful,  wild  hill-country, 
the  brown  country  roadway  wound  ;  now  going  straight 
up  a  pitch  that  looked  as  perpendicular  as  you  approached 
it  as  the  side  of  a  barn ;  then  flinging  itself  down  such 
a  steep  as  seemed  .at  every  turn  to  come  to  a  blank  end, 
and  to  lead  off  with  a  plunge,  into  air  ;  the  water-bars, 
ridged  across  at  rough  intervals,  girding  it  to  the  bosom 
of  the  mountain,  and  breaking  the  accelerated  velocity  of 
the  descending  wheels.  Sylvie  caught  her  breath,  more 
than  once  ;  but  she  did  it  behind  shut  lips,  with  only  a 
dilatation  of  her  nostrils.  She  was  so  afraid  that  Rodney 
might  think  she  doubted  his  driving. 


WHAT  NOBODY   COULD  HELP.  445 

The  woods  were  growing  tender  with  fretwork  of 
swelling  buds,  and  beautiful  with  bright,  young  hem 
lock-tips  ;  there  was  a  twittering  and  calling  of  birds  all 
through  the  air  ;  the  first  little  breaths  and  ripples  of 
spring  music  before  the  whole  gay,  summer  burst  of  song 
gushed  forth. 

The  fields  lay  rich  in  brown  seams,  where  the  plough 
had  newly  furrowed  them.  Farmers  were  throwing  in 
seed  of  barley  and  spring  wheat.  The  cattle  were  stand 
ing  in  the  low  sunshine,  in  barn-doors  and  milking-yards. 
Sheep  were  browsing  the  little  buds  on  the  pasture 
bushes. 

The  April  day  would  soon  be  over.  To-morrow  might 
bring  a  cold  wind,  perhaps ;  but  the  winter  had  been 
long  and  hard  ;  and  after  such,  we  believe  in  the  spring 
pleasantness  when  it  comes. 

"  What  a  little  way  brings  us  into  a  different  world  ! : 
said  Sylvie  as  they  rode  along.     "  Just  back  there  in  the 
city,  you  can  hardly  believe  in  these  hills." 
Her  own  words  reminded  her. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  find,  sometime,"  she  said  gently, 
"  that  the  other  world  is  only  a  little  way  out." 

"  I've  been  very  sorry  for  you,  Sylvie,"  said  Rodney. 
"  I  hope  you  know  that." 

His  slight  abruptness  told  her  how  the  thought  had 
been  ready  and  pressing  for  speech,  underneath  all  their 
casual  talk. 

And  he  had  dropped  the  prefix  from  her  name. 
He  had  not  meant  to,  but  he  could  not  go  back  and 
put  it  on.     It  was  another  little  falling  out  that  he  could 
not  help.     The  things  he  could  not  help  were  the  most 
comfortable. 

"  Mother  would  have  had  a  very  hard  time  if  she  had 


446  THE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

lived,"  said  Sylvie.  "  I  am  glad  for  her.  It  was  a  great 
deal  better.  And  it  came  so  tenderly !  I  had  dreaded 
sickness  and  pain  for  her." 

44  It  has  been  all  hard  for  you.  I  hope  it  will  be  easier 
now.  I  hope  it  will  always  be  easier." 

"  I  am  going  to  live  with  Mrs.  Kirkbright,"  said 
Sylvie. 

44  Tell  me  about  my  new  aunt,"  said  Rodney. 

Sylvie  was  glad  to  go  on  about  Desire,  about  the  wed 
ding,  about  Hill-hope,  and  the  plans  for  living  there. 

44 1  think  it  will  be  almost  like  heaven,"  she  said.  "  It 
will  be  home  and  happiness  ;  all  that  people  look  forward 
to  for  themselves.  And  yet,  right  alongside,  there  will 
be  the  work' and  the  help.  It  will  open  right  out  into  it, 
as  heaven  does  into  earth.  Mr.  Kirkbright  is  a  grand 
man." 

44  Yes.  He's  one  of  the  ten-talent  people.  But  I  sup 
pose  we  can  all  do  something.  It  is  good  to  have  some 
little  one-horse  teams  for  the  light  jobs." 

44 1  never  could  be  Desire,"  said  Sylvie.  44  But  I  am 
glad  to  work  with  her.  I  am  glad  to  live  one  of  the 
little  lives." 

There  would  always  be  a  boy  and  girl  simpleness 
between  these  two,  and  in  their  taking  of  the  world 
together.  And  that  is  good  for  the  world,  as  well.  It 
cannot  be  all  made  of  mountains.  If  all  were  high  and 
grand,  it  would  be  as  if  nothing  were.  Heaven  itself  is 
not  built  like  that. 

44  There  goes  some  of  Uncle  Christopher's  stuff,  I  sup 
pose,"  said  Rodney,  a  while  afterward,  as  they  came  to 
the  top  of  a  long  ascent.  He  pointed  to  a  great  loaded 
wain  that  stood  with  its  three  powerful  horses  on  the 
crest  of  a  forward  hill.  It  was  piled  high  up  with  tiling 


WHAT  NOBODY   COULD  HELP.  447 

and  drain-pipe,  packed  with  straw.  The  long  cylinders 
showed  their  round  mouths  behind,  like  the  mouths  of 
cannon. 

"  A  nice  cargo  for  these  hills,  I  should  think." 

"They  have  brakes  on  the  wheels,  of  course,"  said 
Sylvie.  "  And  the  horses  are  strong.  That  must  be  for 
the  new  houses.  They  will  soon  make  all  those  things 
here.  Mr.  Kirkbright  has  large  contracts  for  brick, 
already.  He  has  been  sending  down  specimens.  They 
say  the  clay  is  of  remarkably  fine  quality." 

"  We  shall  have  to  get  by  that  thing,  presently,"  said 
Rodney.  "  I  hope  the  horse  will  take  it  well." 

"  Are  you  trying  to  frighten  me  ? "  asked  Sylvie, 
smiling.  "  I'm  used  to  these  roads.  I  have  spent  half 
a  summer  here,  you  know." 

But  Rodney  knew  that  it  was  the  "  being  used  "  that 
would  be  the  question  with  the  horse.  He  doubted  if  the 
little  country  beast  had  ever  seen  drain-pipe  before.  He 
had  once  driven  Red  Squirrel  past  a  steam  boiler  that  was 
being  transported  on  a  truck.  He  remembered  the 
writhe  with  which  the  animal  had  doubled  himself,  and 
the  side  spring  he  had  made.  It  was  growing  dusk,  now, 
also.  They  were  not  more  than  a  mile  from  Brickfield 
Basin,  and  the  sun  was  dropping  behind  the  hills. 

"  I  shall  take  you  out,  and  lead  him  by,"  he  said. 
"  I've  no  wish  to  give  you  another  spill.  We  won't  go 
on  through  life  in  that  way." 

It  was  quite  as  well  that  they  had  only  another  mile  to 
go.  Rodney  was  keeping  his  promise,  but  the  thread  of 
it  was  wearing  very  thin. 

They  rode  slowly  up  the  opposite  slope,  then  waited, 
in  their  turn,  on  the  top,  to  give  the  team  time  to  reach 
the  next  level. 


448  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

They  heard  it  creak  and  grind  as  it  wore  heavily 
down,  taking  up  the  whole  track  with  careful  zigzag  tack- 
ings  ;  they  could  see,  as  it  turned,  how  the  pole  stood 
sharp  up  between  the  shoulders  of  the  straining  wheel 
horses,  as  their  haunches  pressed  out  either  way,  and 
their  backs  hollowed,  and  their  noses  came  together,  and 
the  driver  touched  them  dexterously  right  and  left  upon 
their  flanks  to  bring  them  in  again. 

"  Uncle  Kit  has  a  good  teamster  there,"  said  Rodney. 

Just  against  the  foot  of  the  next  rise,  they  overtook 
him.  The  gray  nag  that  Rodney  drove  pricked  his  ears 
and  stretched  his  head  up,  and  began  to  take  short, 
cringing  steps,  as  they  drew  near  the  formidable,  moving 
mass. 

Rodney  jumped  out,  and  keeping  eye  and  hand  upon 
him,  helped  down  Sylvie  also.  Then  he  threw  the  long 
reins  over  his  arm,  and  took  the  horse  by  the  bridle. 

The  animal  made  a  half  parenthesis  of  himself,  curving 
skittishly,  and  watching  jealously,  as  he  went  by  the 
frightsome  pile. 

"  You  see  it  was  as  well  not  to  risk  it,"  Rodney  said, 
as  Sylvie  came  up  with  him  beyond.  "  He  would  have 
had  us  down  there  among  the  blackberry  vines.  He's 
all  right  now.  Will  you  get  in  ?  " 

"  Let  us  walk  on  to  the  top,"  said  Sylvie.  "  It  is  so 
pleasant  to  feel  one's  feet  upon  the  ground." 

They  kept  on,  accordingly ;  the  slow  team  rumbling 
behind  them.  At  the  top,  was  a  wide,  beautiful  level ; 
oak-trees  and  maples  grew  along  the  roadside,  and  fields 
stretched  out  along  a  table  land  to  right  and  left.  Before 
them,  lying  in  the  golden  mist  of  twilight,  was  a  sea  of 
distant  hill-tops,  —  purple  and  shadow-black  and  gray. 
The  sky  bent  down  its  tender,  mellow  sphere,  and 
touched  them  softly. 


WHAT  NOBODY  COULD  HELP.  449 

Sylvie  stood  still,  with  folded  hands,  and  Rodney 
stopped  the  horse.  A  rod  or  two  back,  just  at  the  edge 
of  the  level,  the  loaded  wagon  had  stopped  also. 

"  Hills,  —  and  the  sunset,  —  and  stillness,"  said  Syl 
vie.  "  They  always  seem  like  heaven." 

Rodney  stood  with  his  right  hand,  from  which  fell  the 
looped  reins,  reached  up  and  resting  on  the  saddle. 

"  I  never  saw  a  sight  like  that  before,"  he  said. 

While  they  looked,  the  evening  star  trembled  out 
through  the  clear  saffron,  above  the  floating  mist  that 
hung  among  the  hills. 

"  O,  they  never  can  help  it !  "  exclaimed  Sylvie,  sud 
denly. 

"  Help  it  ?     Who  ?  "  asked  Rodney,  wondering. 

"  Beginning  again.  Growing  good.  Those  people  who 
are  coming  up  to  Hill-hope.  There's  a  man  coming,  with 
his  wife  ;  a  young  man,  who  got  into  bad  ways,  and 
took  to  drinking.  Mr.  Vireo  has  been  watching  and 
advising  him  so  long  !  He  married  them,  five  years  ago, 
and  they  have  two  little  children.  The  wife  is  deli 
cate  ;  she  has  worried  through  everything.  She  has 
taken  in  working-men's  washing,  to  earn  the  rent ;  and 
he  had  a  good  trade,  too ;  he  was  a  plasterer.  He  has 
really  tried ;  but  it  was  no  use  in  the  city ;  it  was  all 
around  him.  And  he  lost  character  and  chances;  the 
bosses  wouldn't  have  him,  he  said.  When  he  was  try 
ing  most,  sometimes,  they  wouldn't  believe  in  him ;  and 
then  there  would  come  idle  days,  and  he  would  meet  old 
companions,  and  get  led  off,  and  then  there  would  be 
weeks  of  misery.  Now  he  is  coming  away  from  it  all. 
There  is  a  little  cottage  ready,  with  a  garden  ;  the  little 
wife  is  so  happy  !  He  can't  get  it  here  ;  and  he  will  have 
work  at  his  trade,  and  will  learn  brickmaking.  Do  you 


450  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

know,  I  think  a  place  like  this,  where  such  work  is 
doing,  is  almost  better  than  heaven,  where  it  is  all  done, 
Rodney !  " 

She  spoke  his  name,  as  he  had  hers  a  little  while  ago, 
without  thinking.  He  turned  his  face  toward  her  with  a 
look  which  kindled  into  sudden  light  at  that  last  word, 
but  which  had  warmed  all  through  before  with  the  gen 
erous  pathos  of  what  she  told  him,  and  the  earnest,  sim 
ple  way  of  it. 

"  I've  found  out  that  even, in  our  own  affairs,  making 
is  better  than  ready-made,"  he  said.  "  This  last  year 
has  been  the  best  year  of  my  life.  If  my  father  had 
given  me  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and  told  me  I  might  — 
have  all  my  own  way  with  it,  —  I  shouldn't  have  thanked 
him  as  much  to-day,  as  I  do.  But  I  wish  that  steamer 
were  in,  and  he  were  here  !  He  has  got  something  which 
belongs  to  me,  and  I  want  him  to  give  it  back." 

After  enunciating  this  little  riddle,  Rodney  changed 
hands  with  his  reins,  and  faced  about  toward  the  vehicle, 
reaching  his  other  to  Sylvie. 

"  You  had  better  jump  in,"  he  said  ;  and  there  was  a 
tone  and  an  inflection  at  the  pause,  as  if  another  word, 
that  would  have  been  tenderly  spoken,  hung  refrained 
upon  it.  "  We  must  get  well  ahead  of  that  old  cata 
pult." 

They  drove  on  rapidly  along  the  level ;  then  they  came 
to  the  long,  gradual  slope  that  brought  them  down  into 
Brickfields. 

To  the  right,  just  before  reaching  the  Basin,  a  turn 
struck  off  that  skirted  round,  partly  ascending  again, 
until  it  fell  into  the  Cone  Hill  road  and  so  led  direct  to 
Hill-hope. 

They   could  see  the  buildings,  grouped  picturesquely 


WHAT  NOBODY   COULD  HELP.  451 

against  rocks  and  pines  and  down  against  the  root  of  the 
green  hill.  They  had*  all  been  painted  of  a  light  gray 
or  slate  color,  with  red  roofs. 

They  passed  on,  down  into  the  shadows,  where  trees 
were  thick  and  dark.  A  damp,  rich  smell  of  the  woods 
was  about  them,  —  a  different  atmosphere  from  the 
breath  of  the  hill-top.  They  heard  the  tinkle  of  little 
unseen  streams,  and  the  far-off,  foaming  plunge  of  the 
cascades. 

Suddenly,  there  came  a  sound  behind  them  like  the 
rush  of  an  avalanche ;  a  noise  that  seemed  to  fill  up  all 
the  space  of  the  air,  and  to  gather  itself  down  toward 
them  on  every  side  alike. 

"  O,  Rodney,  turn  !  "  cried  Sylvie. 

But  there  was  a  horrible  second  in  which  he  could  not 
know  how  to  turn. 

He  did  not  stop  to  look,  even.  He  sprang,  with  one 
leap,  he  knew  not  how,  —  over  step  or  dasher,  —  to  the 
horse's  head.  He  seized  him  by  the  bridle,  and  pulled 
him  off  the  road,  into  a  thicket  of  bush-branches,  in  a 
hollow  rough  with  stones. 

The  wheels  caught  fast ;  Rodney  clung  to  the  horse, 
who  tried  to  rear  ;  Sylvie  sat  still  on  the  seat  sloped  with 
the  sharp  cant  of  the  half-overturned  vehicle. 

There  was  only  a  single  instant.  Down,  with  the  aw 
ful  roar  of  an  earthquake,  came  crashing  swift  and  head 
long,  passing  within  a  hand's  breadth  of  their  wheel,  the 
enormous,  toppling,  loaded  team  ;  its  three  strong  horses 
in  a  wild,  plunging  gallop  ;  heels,  heads,  haunches,  one 
dark,  frantic,  struggling  tumble  and  rush.  An  instant 
more,  of  paralyzed  breathlessness,  and  then  a  thundering 
fall,  that  made  the  ground  quiver  under  their  feet ;  then 
a  stillness  more  suddenly  dreadful  than  the  noise.  A 


452  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

great  cloud  of  dust  rose  slowly  up  into  tlie  air,  and 
showed  dimly  in  the  dusky  light.  * 

The  gray  horse  quieted,  cowed  by  the  very  terror  and 
the  hush.  Sylvie  slipped  down  from  the  tilting  buggy, 
and  found  her  feet  upon  a  stone. 

Rodney  reached  out  one  hand,  and  she  came  to  his 
side.  He  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  drew  her  close. 

"  My  darling  little  Sylvie  !  "  he  said. 

She  turned  her  face,  and  leaned  it  down  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"  O,  Rodney,  the  poor  man  is  killed  ! " 

But  as  they  stood  so,  a  figure  came  toward  them,  over 
the  high  water-bar  below  which  they  had  stopped. 

"  For  God's  sake,  is  anybody  hurt  ?  "  asked  a  strange, 
hoarse  voice  with  a  tremble  in  it. 

"  Nobody ! " 

"  O,  are  you  the  driver?  I  thought  you  must  be  killed  ! 
How  thankful!" —  And  Sylvie  sobbed  on  Rodney's 
shoulder. 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  No,  look  after  your  horses."  And  the  man  went  on, 
down  into  the  dust,  where  the  wreck  was. 

"  We'll  go,  and  send  help  to  you,"  shouted  Rodney. 

Then  he  backed  the  gray  horse  carefully  out  upon  the 
road  again. 

"  Will  you  dare  get  in  ?  "  he  asked  of  Sylvie. 

"I  do  not  think  we  had  better.  How  can  we  tell  how 
it  is  down  there  ?  We  may  not  be  able  to  pass." 

"It  is  below  the  turn,  I  think.  But  come,  —  we'll 
walk." 

He  took  the  bridle  again,  and  gave  his  other  hand  to 
Sylvie.  Holding  each  other  so,  they  went  along. 

When  they  came  to  the  turn,  they  could  see,  just  be- 


WHAT  NOBODY   COULD  HELP.  453 

yond,  the  mass  of  ruin  ;  the  great  wagon,  three  wheels 
in  the  air,  —  one  rolled  away  into  the  ditch ;  the  broken 
freight,  flung  all  across  the  road,  and  lying  piled  about 
the  wagon.  One  horse  was  dead,  —  buried  underneath. 
Another  lay  motionless,  making  horrid  moans.  The 
teamster  was  freeing  the  third  —  the  leader,  which  stood 
safe  —  from  chains  and  harness. 

Leading  him,  the  man  came  up  with  Rodney  and  Sylvie, 
as  they  turned  into  the  side  road. 

"  I  knew  you  were  just  ahead,  when  it  happened.  I 
thought  you  were  gone  for  certain." 

"There  was  a  Mercy  over  us  all !"  said  Sylvie,  with 
sweet,  tremulous  intenseness. 

The  rough  man  lifted  his  hand  to  his  bare  head.  Rod 
ney  clasped  tighter  the  little  fingers  that  lay  within  his 
own. 

"  What  did  happen  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  brake-rod  broke ;  the  pole-strap  gave  way  ;  it 
was  all  in  a  heap  in  a  minute.  I  saw  it  was  no  use  ;  I 
had  to  jump.  And  then  I  thought  of  you.  I'm  glad 
you  saw  me,  sir.  You  know  I  was  sober." 

"  I  know  you  were  sober,  and  managing  most  skillfully. 
I  had  been  saying  that." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.     It's  an  awful  job." 

"Hark!"  said  Sylvie.  "There's  the  man  with  the 
trunks." 

"  I  forgot  all  about  him,"  said  Rodney. 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  the  teamster.  "  Turn  down 
here,  to  let  him  by.  Hallo  !  " 

"  Hallo  !     Come  to  grief  ?  " 

"  We  just  have,  then.  Go  ahead,  will  you,  and  bring 
back  —  something  to  shoot  with"  he  added,  in  a  lower 
tone,  and  coming  close,  — remembering  Sylvie.  "  I  had 


454  THE   OTHER    GIRLS. 

a  crow-bar,  but  it's  lost  in  the  jumble.  I'll  stay  here, 
now." 

The  wagon  drove  by,  rapidly.  The  man  led  his  horse 
down  by  the  wall,  to  wait  there.  Sylvie  and  Rodney, 
hand  in  hand,  walked  on. 

Sylvie  shivered  with  the  horrible  excitement ;  her 
teeth  chattered  ;  a  nervous  trembling  was  taking  hold  of 
her. 

Rodney  put  his  arm  round  her  again.  "  Don't  trem 
ble,  dear,"  he  said. 

"  O,  Rodney  !     What  were  we  kept  alive  for  ?  " 

"  For  each  other,"  whispered  Rodney. 


«I  THINK  WE'VE  GOT  THE  REFUSAL  OF  EACH  OTHER." 


HILL-HOPE.  455 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

HILL-HOPE. 

THEY  were  sitting  together,  the  next  day,  on  the  rock 
below  the  cascade,  in  the  warm  sunshine. 

Aunt  Euphrasia  knew  all  about  it;  Aunt  Euphrasia 
had  let  them  go  down  there  together.  She  was  as  con 
tent  as  Rodney  in  the  thing  that  could  not  now  be 
helped. 

"  I've  broken  my  promise,"  said  Rodney  to  Sylvie. 
"  I  agreed  with  my  father  that  I  wouldn't  be  engaged  for 
two  years." 

"  Why,  we  aren't  engaged,  — yet,  —  are  we  ?  "  asked 
Sylvie,  with  bewitching  surprise. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Rodney,  his  old,  merry,  mis 
chievous  twinkle  coming  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  as  he 
flashed  them  up  at  her.  "  I  think  we've  got  the  refusal 
of  each  other  !  " 

"Well.  We'll  keep  it  so.  We'll  wait.  You  shall 
not  break  any  promise  for  me,"  said  Sylvie,  still  sweetly 
obtuse. 

"  I'm  -satisfied  with  that  way  of  looking  at  it,"  said 
Rodney,  laughing  out.  "  Unless  —  you  mean  to  be  as 
cunning  about  everything  else,  Sylvie.  In  that  case,  I 
don't  know  ;  I'm  afraid  you'd  be  dangerous." 

"  I  wonder  if  I'm  always  going  to  be  dangerous  to  you," 
said  Sylvie,  gravely,  taking  up  the  word.  "  I  always  get 
you  into  an  accident." 

"  When  we  take  matters  quietly,  the  way  they  were 
meant  to  go,  we  shall  leave  off  being  hustled,  I  suppose," 


456  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

said  Rodney,  just  as  gravely.    "  There  has  certainly  been 
intent  in  the  way  we  have  been  —  thrown  together !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you  ought  to  say  such  things,  Rod 
ney,  —  yet !  You  are  talking  just  as  if  "  — 

"  We  weren't  waiting.  O,  yes  !  I'm  glad  you  invented 
that  little  temporary  arrangement.  But  it's  a  difficult 
one  to  carry  out.  I  shall  be  gladder  when  my  father 
comes.  I'm  tired  of  being  Casabianca.  I  don't  see  how 
we  can  talk  at  all.  Mayn't  I  tell  you  about  a  little  house 
there  is  at  Arlesbury,  with  a  square  porch  and  a  three- 
windowed  room  over  it,  where  anybody  could  sit  and 
sew  —  among  plants  and  things  —  and  see>  all  up  and 
down  the  road,  to  and  from  the  mills  ?  A  little  brown 
house,  with  turf  up  to  the  door-stone,  and  only  a  hundred 
dollars  a  year  ?  Mayn't  I  tell  you  how  much  I've  saved 
up,  and  how  I  like  being  a  real  working  man  with  a 
salary,  just  as  you  liked  being  one  of  the  Other  Girls  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  you  may  tell  me  that ;  that  last,"  said  Sylvie, 
softly.  "  You  may  tell  me  anything  you  like  about  your 
self." 

"  Then  I  must  tell  you  that  I  never  should  have  been 
good  for  anything  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

"  O,  dear  !  "  said  Sylvie.  "  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
talk.  It  keeps  coming  back  again.  I've  had  all  those 
plants  kept  safe  that  you  sent  me,  Rodney,"  she  began, 
briskly,  upon  a  fresh  tack. 

"Those  very  ivies?  Ah,  the  little  three- windowed 
room  !  " 

"  Rodney !  I  didn't  think  you  were  so  unprincipled !  " 
said  Sylvie,  getting  up.  "  I  wouldn't  have  come  down 
here,  if  I  had  known  there  was  a  promise !  I  shall  cer 
tainly  help  you  keep  it.  I  shall  go  away." 

She  turned  round,  and  met  a  gentleman  coming  down 
along  the  slope  of  the  smooth,  broad  rock. 


HILL-HOPE.  457 

"  Mr.  Sherrett !  —Rodney  !  " 

Rodney  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  My  boy  !     How  are  you  ?  " 

"  Father  I     When  —  how  —  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  Tillingtoii  by  the  late  train  last  night,  and 
have  just  driven  over.  I  went  to  Arlesbury  yesterday." 

"  But  the  steamer  !  She  wasn't  due  till  Sunday.  You 
sailed  the  ninth  ?  " 

"  No.  I  exchanged  passages  with  a  friend  who  was 
detained  in  London.  I  came  by  the  Palmyra.  But  you 
don't  let  me  speak  to  Sylvie." 

He  pronounced  her  name  with  a  kind  emphasis ;  he 
had  turned  and  taken  her  hand,  after  the  first  grasp  of 
Rodney's. 

"  Father,  I've  broken  my  promise ;  but  I  don't  think 
anybody  could  have  helped  it.  You  couldn't  have  helped 
it  yourself." 

"  I've  seen  Aunt  Euphrasia.  I've  been  here  almost  an 
hour.  I  have  thanked  God  that  nothing  is  broken  but 
the  promise,  Rodney ;  and  I  think  the  term  of  that  was 
broken  only  because  the  intent  had  been  so  faithfully 
kept.  I'm  satisfied  with  one  year.  I  believe  all  the  rest 
of  your  years  will  be  safer  and  better  for  having  this  little 
lady  to  promise  to,  and  to  help  you  keep  your  word." 

And  he  bent  down  his  splendid  gray  head,  with  the 
dark  eyes  looking  softly  at  her,  and  kissed  Sylvie  on  the 
forehead. 

Sylvie  stood  still  a  moment,  with  a  very  lovely,  happy, 
shy  look  upon  her  downcast  face ;  then  she  lifted  it  up 
quickly,  with  a  clear,  earnest  expression. 

"I  hope  you  think,  Mr.  Sherrett, — I  hope  you  feel 
sure,"  —  she  said,  "  that  I  wouldn't  have  been  engaged 
to  Rodney  while  there  was  a  promise  ?  " 


458  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

"  Not  more  than  you  could  possibly  help,"  said  Mr. 
Sherrett,  smiling. 

"  Not  the  very  least  little  bit !  "  said  Sylvie,  emphat 
ically  ;  and  then  they  all  three  laughed  together. 

I  don't  know  why  everything  should  have  happened  as 
it  did,  just  in  these  few  days  ;  except  —  that  this  book 
was  to  be  all  printed  by  the  twenty-third  of  April,  and  it 
all  had  to  go  in. 

That  very  afternoon  there  came  a  letter  to  Miss  Eu- 
phrasia  from  Mr.  Dakie  Thayne. 

He  had  found  Mr.  Farron  Saftleigh  in  Dubuque  ;  he 
had  pressed  him  close  upon  the  matter  of  his  transactions 
with  Mrs.  Argenter  ;  he  had  obtained  a  hold  upon  him  in 
some  other  business  that  had  come  to  his  knowledge  in 
the  course  of  his  inquiries  at  Denver  :  and  the  result  had 
been  that  Mr.  Farron  Saftleigh  had  repurchased  of  him 
the  railroad  bonds  and  the  deeds  of  Donnowhair  land,  to 
the  amount  of  five  thousand  dollars ;  which  sum  he 
inclosed  in  his  own  check  payable  to  the  order  of  Sylvia 
Argenter. 

Knowing,  morally,  some  things  that  I  have  not  had 
opportunity  to  investigate  in  detail,  and  cannot  therefore 
set  down  as  verities,  —  I  am  privately  convinced  that  this 
little  business  agency  on  the  part  of  Dakie  Thayne,  was 
—  in  some  proportion  at  least, —  a  piece  of  a  horse 
shoe! 

If  you  have  not  happened  to  read  "  Real  Folks,"  you 
will  not  know  what  that  means.  If  you  have,  you  will 
now  get  a  glimpse  of  how  it  had  come  to  Ruth  and  Da 
kie  that  their  horse-shoe,  —  their  little  section  of  the 
world's  great  magnet  of  loving  relation,  —  might  be 
made.  Indeed,  I  do  know,  and  can  tell  you,  the  very 


HILL-HOPE.  459 

words  Ruth  said  to  Dakie  one  day  when  they  had  been 
married  just  three  weeks. 

"  I've  always  thought,  Dakie,  that  if  ever  I  had  money, 
—  or  if  ever  I  came  to  advise  or  help  anybody  who  had, 
and  who  wanted  to  do  good  with  it,  —  that  there  would 
be  one  special  way  I  should  like  to  take.  I  should  like 
to  sit  up  in  the  branches,  and  shake  down  fruit  into  the 
laps  of  some  people  who  never  would  know  where  it  came 
from,  and  wouldn't  take  it  if  they  did  ;  though  they 
couldn't  reach  a  single  bough  to  pick  for  themselves.  I 
mean  nice,  unlucky  people ;  people  who  always  have  a 
hard  time,  and  need  to  have  a  good  one  ;  and  are  obliged 
in  many  things  to  pretend  they  do.  There  are  a  good 
many  who  are  willing  and  anxious  to  help  the  very  poor, 
but  I  think  there's  a  mission  waiting  for  somebody 
among  the  pinched-and-smiling  people.  I've  been  a  Ruth 
Pinch  myself,  you  see ;  and  I  know  all  about  it,  Mr. 
John  Westlock ! " 

So  I  know  they  looked  about  for  crafty  little  chances 
to  piece  out  and  supplement  small  ways  and  means ;  to 
put  little  traps  of  good  luck  in  the  way  for  people  to 
stumble  upon,  —  and  to  act  the  part  generally  of  a  hu 
man  limited  providence,  which  is  a  better  thing  than 
fairy  godmothers,  or  enchanted  cats,  or  frogs  under  the 
bridge  at  the  world's  end,  in  which  guise  the  gentle  chari 
ties  clothed  themselves  in  the  old  elf  fables,  that  were 
told,  I  truly  believe,  to  be  lived  out  in  real  doing,  as 
much  as  the  New  Testament  Parables  were.  And  a 
great  deal  of  the  manifold  responsibility  that  Mr.  Dakie 
Thayne  undertakes,  as  broker  or  agent  in  the  concerns  of 
others,  is  undertaken  with  a  deliberate  ulterior  design  of 
this  sort.  I  think  Mr.  Farron  Saftleigh  probably  was 
made  to  pay  about  three  thousand  dollars  of  the  sum  he 


460  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

had  wheedled  Mrs.  Argenter  out  of.  Dakie  Thayne 
makes  things  yield  of  themselves  as  far  as  they  will ;  he 
brings  capacity  and  character  to  bear  upon  his  ends  as 
well  as  money ;  he  knows  his  money  would  not  last 
forever  if  he  did  not. 

Mr.  Sherrett  and  Rodney  stayed  at  Hill-hope  over  the 
Sunday.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kirkbright  arrived  on  Saturday 
morning. 

There  was  a  first  home-service  in  the  Chapel-Room 
that  looked  out  upon  the  Rock,  and  into  which  the  con 
servatory  already  gave  its  greenness  and  sweetness,  that 
first  Sunday  after  Easter. 

Christopher  Kirkbright  read  the  Collect,  Epistle,  and 
Gospel  for  the  day  ;  the  Prayer,  that  God  "  who  had 
given  his  only  Son  to  die  for  our  sins,  and  to  rise  again 
for  our  justification,  would  grant  them  so  to  put  away  the 
leaven  of  malice  and  wickedness,  that  they  might  always 
serve  Him  in  pureness  and  truth  "  ;  the  Assurance  of 
"  the  victory  that  overcometh  the  world,  even  our  faith 
in  the  Son  of  God,"  who  came  "  not  by  water  only,  but 
by  water  and  blood  "  ;  and  that  "  the  spirit  and  the  water 
and  the  blood  agree  in  one,"  —  in  our  redemption  ;  the 
Story  of  that  First  Day  of  the  week,  when  Jesus  came 
back  to  his  disciples,  after  his  resurrection,  and  said, 
"Peace  be  unto  you,"  showing  them  his  hands  and  his 
side. 

He  spoke  to  them  of  the  Blood  of  Christ,  which  is  the 
Pain  of  God  for  every  one  of  us ;  which  touches  the 
quick  of  our  own  souls  where  their  life  is  joined  to  his  or 
else  is  dead.  Of  how,  when  we  feel  it,  we  know  that  this 
Divine  Pain  comes  down  that  we  may  die  by  it  to  sin, 
and  live  again  to  justification,  in  pureness  and  truth  ; 
that  the  Lord  shows  us  his  wounds  for  us,  and  waits  to 


HILL-HOPE.  461 

pronounce  his  peace  upon  us ;  because  He  suffers  till  we 
are  at  peace.  That  so  his  goodness  leads  us  to  repent 
ance  ;  that  the  blood  of  suffering,  and  the  water  of  cleans 
ing,  and  the  spirit  of  life  renewed,  agree  in  one ;  that  if 
we  receive  the  one,  —  if  we  bear  the  pain  with  which  He 
touches  us,  —  we  shall  also  receive  the  other. 

"  Bear,  therefore,  whatever  crucifixion  you  have  to 
bear,  because  of  your  wrong-doing.  We,  indeed,  suffer 
justly  ;  but  .He,  who  hath  done  nothing  amiss,  suffers  at 
our  side.  e  If  we  are  planted  together  in  the  likeness  of 
his  death,  we  shall  also  be  in  the  likeness  of  his  resurrec 
tion  ; '  our  old  life  is  crucified  with  Him,  that  the  body  of 
sin  might  be  destroyed.  ;  We  are  dead  unto  sin,  but 
alive  unto  God,  through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord.'  " 

Mary  Moxall  was  there,  clothed  and  in  her  right  mind ; 
her  baby  on  her  lap.  Good  Mrs.  Crumford,  the  mother- 
matron,  sat  beside  her.  Andrew  Dorray,  the  plasterer, 
and  his  wife,  Annie,  were  there.  Men  and  women  from 
the  farmhouse  and  the  cottages,  dressed  in  their  Sabbath 
best ;  and  little  children,  looking  in  with  steadfast,  won 
dering  eyes,  at  the  open  conservatory  door,  upon  the 
vines  and  blooms  steeped  in  sunshine,  and  mingling  their 
sweet  odors  with  the  scent  of  the  warm,  moist  earth  in 
which  they  grew. 

They  would  all  have  pinks  and  rosebuds  to  carry  away 
with  them,  to  remember  the  Sunday  by,  and  to  be  forever 
linked,  in  their  tender  color  and  fragrance,  with  the  dim 
apprehension  of  somewhat  holy.  There  would  be  an  as 
sociation  for  them  of  the  heavenly  things  unseen  with  the 
heavenliest  things  that  are  seen. 

Mr.  Kirkbright  had  given  especial  pains  and  foresight 
to  the  filling  of  this  little  greenhouse.  He  meant  that 
there  should  be  a  summer  pleasantness  at  Hill-hope  from 
the  very  first. 


462  THE   OTHER   GIRLS. 

After  dinner  he  and  Desire  walked  up  and  down  the 
long  front  upper  gallery  upon  which  their  own  rooms  and 
their  guest-rooms  opened,  and  whence  the  many  windows 
on  the  other  hand  gave  the  whole  outlook  upon  Farm 
and  Basin,  the  smoking  kilns,  the  tidy  little  homes 
already  established,  and  the  buildings  that  were  making 
ready  for  more. 

Christopher  Kirkbright  told  his  wife  of  many  things  he 
hoped  to  accomplish.  He  pointed  out  here  and  there 
what  might  be  done.  Over  there  was  a  maple  wood 
where  they  would  have  sugar-makings  in  the  spring. 
There  was  a  quarry  in  yonder  hill.  Down  here,  through 
that  left  hand  hollow  and  ravine,  would  run  their  bit  of 
railroad. 

"  A  little  world  of  itself  might  almost  grow  up  here  on 
these  two  hundred  acres,"  he  said. 

"  And  for  the  home,  —  you  must  make  that  large  and 
beautiful,  Desire  !  "We  are  not  shut  up  here  to  guard 
and  rule  a  penitentiary  ;  we  are  to  bring  the  best  and 
sweetest  and  most  beautiful  life  possible  to  us,  close  to 
the  life  we  want  to  help.  There  is  room  for  them  and 
us  ;  there  is  opportunity  for  their  world  and  ours  to  touch 
each  other  and  grow  toward  one.  We  must  have  friends 
here,  Daisy";  (she  let  Mm  call  her  "Daisy";  had  he  not 
the  right  to  give  her  a  new  name  for  her  new  life?) 
"  friends  to  enjoy  the  delicious  summers,  and  to  make  the 
long  winters  full  of  holiday  times.  You  must  invent  de 
lights  as  well  as  uses:  delights  that  will  be  uses.  It 
must  be  so  for  your  sake. ;  I  must  have  my  Desire  satis 
fied,  —  content,  in  ways  that  perhaps  she  herself  would 
not  find  out  her  need  in." 

"  Is  not  your  Desire  satisfied  ?  " 

"  What  a  blessed  little  double  name  you  have  !  Yes, 
-Daisy,  the  very  Desire  of  my  heart  has  come  to  me  I  " 


HILL-HOPE.  463 

Rodney  and  Sylvie  walked  down  again  to  the  Cascade 
Rock,  and  finished  their  talk  together,  —  this  April  num 
ber  of  it,  I  mean,  —  about  the  brown  house  and  the  three- 
windowed,  sunny  room,  and  the  grass  plot  where  they 
would  play  croquet,  and  the  road  to  the  mills  that  was 
shaded  all  the  way  down,  so  that  she  could  walk  with 
her  bonnet  off  to  meet  him  when  he  was  coming  up  to 
tea.  About  the  ivies  that  the  "  good  Miss  Goodwyns  " 
had  kept  safe  and  thriving  at  Dorbury,  and  the  furniture 
that  Sylvie  had  stored  in  a  loft  in  the  Bank  Block.  How 
pretty  the  white  frilled  curtains  would  be  in  the  porch 
room ! 

"  And  the  interest  of  the  five  thousand  dollars  will  be 
all  I  shall  ever  want  to  spend  for  anything !  " 

"  We  shall  be  quite  rich  people,  Sylvie.  We  must 
take  care  not  to  grow  proud  and  snobbish." 

"  We  had  much  better  walk  than  ride,  Rodney.  I 
think  that  is  the  riddle  that  all  our  spiUs  have  been 
meant  to  read  us." 


MECHANICS-INSTITUTE 
r  UANC1SCG. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  PROM  WH!CH  BORROW 
LOAN  DEPT. 


ontea 
Renewed  books  ate  subjecttoJmmed^ecaU. 


LD  2lA- 
(C8481slO)476B 


